


Bell, Book, Candle, Metal Arm

by Cymry



Series: Grace [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: American Sign Language, Discorporation (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mute Bucky Barnes, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymry/pseuds/Cymry
Summary: Things had been going well for Bucky Barnes. His recovery was on track and he was settling into life at the Avengers Compound with his sweetheart at his side. But everything changed when a figure from his past made a traumatic reappearance. And why have an angel and demon come back into his life?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Grace [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491905
Comments: 26
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to read 'Grace Can Be Found...' and 'Prodigal Son' before this one. The short stories can be read before this one if you like.

Since Bucky had reappeared, therapy was just a fact of life. Steve had loved him all the same, no matter how much Bucky weighed; or how he flinched whenever people got close; or how he’d spoken a grand total of five words in three months. He supported him in any doctor visit Bucky wanted him present at. Dietitians, neurologists, therapists - a dozen different specialities. But some therapy could be fun.

Bucky was lying on his side, mirroring Steve’s position. Both of them were naked from the waist up. Nudity was one of the great obstacles remaining for Bucky, but he had Barsoom to distract him. He’d always had a great voice for storytelling.

“I have been a chief among you,” said Bucky, paperback in his right hand. The picture on the cover was of an under-dressed man with an equally under-dressed woman in his arms. Bucky saved the especially lurid covers to show him. “And today I have fought for Thark shoulder to shoulder with her greatest warrior. You owe me, at least, a hearing. I have won that much today.”

Steve traced the narrow plates on the back of Bucky’s left hand. He didn’t have as much sensation in it, but it was more than another prosthesis would give him. And he could feel Steve’s hand. Plates clicked in its wake as Steve moved up over the wrist and elbow. Up to the smooth, freshly-painted surface of his star. Up a little more, just with one finger, to the ridge of scar tissue that marked the boundary between metal and flesh.

Bucky’s intake of breath was warning enough. Steve drew his hand back slowly. No sudden movement. He’d been warned, back in the beginning, that Bucky’s selective mutism might stop him from objecting to something, that he might freeze and not be able to sign either. But they didn’t know that Steve could still read Bucky like an open book.

“It’s okay, baby.”

Bucky nodded. His eyes were darting around and his mouth was shaping words - pillow, lamp, light switch - which was one of Sam’s anxiety-busting techniques. After naming a few more things - blanket, Steve, book - Bucky took a deep breath and said, “Okay.” He took his book in his other hand and pressed his right hand where Steve had touched him. Despite all Hydra had done to him, the only scar Bucky had was that one. Steve figured it was all the moving the arm did, or maybe that having it attached had been too traumatic even for the super-soldier serum to heal. He wondered again as he watched Bucky’s breathing level back out. Bucky didn’t move or ask Steve to move either.

“I’m okay,” he said finally. He was fixed on a point on the covers instead of Steve’s face, but his right hand formed a stiff beak, like an ‘O’, and pecked himself by the mouth and on the cheek. That meant _kiss_.

Steve leant carefully forward, tucking soft, dark hair behind Bucky’s ear, and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. Bucky was good at kissing, better than long embraces and being approached from behind. And Steve had wanted to do this ever since Bucky had reappeared at the Tower. His hair smelt amazing.

“You okay to go for a little longer, jeddak?”

“Jeddak,” echoed Bucky with a snort. His hand covered Steve’s. “I’m sorry. I thought I wouldn’t-”

“It’s okay.”

“It hurts sometimes,” said Bucky all in one rush. “Not much. I’ve had _worse_ .” In ASL _worse_ was two scissor hands, crossing briefly. Steve could tell even with the book in his hand. “But you can…”

He lifted his metal arm, gesturing with a nod. A long time ago, Bucky used to slot his fingers into the gaps of Steve’s ribs. Their bodies were much more closely matched these days: after they’d gotten Bucky onto solid food, he’d devoured protein like mad, building a solid layer of muscle. Under the metal arm, Steve’s hand rode the gentle rhythms of Bucky’s breathing.

“‘Yes, justice!’ echoed a dozen voices,” said Bucky, “and so, while Tal Hajus fumed and frothed, I continued. ‘Where was your mighty jeddak-” Bucky’s fingers brushed Steve’s shoulder, the metal cool against his skin. “-during the fighting today? I did not see him in the thick of battle; he was not there. He rends defenceless women and little children in his lair, but how recently has one of you seen him fight with men? Why, even I, a midget beside him, felled him with a single blow of my fist.’”

He paused and Steve thought maybe something had triggered in Bucky, but he was looking at him with that mischievous curl to the corners of his mouth.

“Former midget, I’ll have you know.”

“Everyone’s a midget compared to Martians, darling,” said Bucky in such a deadpan that they both burst out laughing. It was nice to be so close, feeling the shake of Bucky’s shoulders through the mattress. _The Princess of Mars_ was lost somewhere between them and Steve didn’t care. Bucky’s laughter was music, was everything right with two centuries. He couldn’t help staring.

“Attention,” said FRIDAY, her calm voice breaking the quiet, “all Avengers please report to the Quinjet.” As soon as she finished speaking, both their phones buzzed. Mission information would be there ready.

“No rest for the wicked,” said Steve. At least Tony had decided against a siren. You didn’t need PTSD to hate getting woken up that way.

Bucky’s uniform was in his room so he vanished across the hall. (Nudity: that obstacle.) It would be important - everything the Avengers were called in for was important - but it didn’t mean that Steve couldn’t throw a longing glance back at the bed. Instead of wrapping himself into soft bedding, Bucky would be strapping himself into Kevlar. At least, he thought, Bucky looked good in Kevlar. He looked good in everything.

“Be careful out there,” said Bucky, suddenly in the doorway. He had once been the deadliest ghost in the world and he moved with absolutely no noise. His hands made scissors and tapped them together at the wrists, one above the other. Not _worse_ but _careful_.

“I’ll have Bucky Barnes watching my six, I’ll be fine.”

Bucky didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he stepped forward into Steve’s reach. Two of his cool, metal fingers brushed Steve’s jaw and he leant forward to kiss him on the mouth. Oh, it had been a long road to rediscovering kissing but it was worth it. Every kiss could be just like the first, whether that first was on a rooftop in Brooklyn, a snowy pine forest in Italy, or the living room next door.

“Well,” said Steve, when they parted, “I’m going to be extra careful now.”

“Good,” was all that Bucky said.

***

The mission was at a refinery in Jersey. Persons unknown had taken staff hostage and held off local law enforcement with experimental laser weapons. But as well as experimental, those guns were also unstable and now the refinery was on fire, hostages and hostage-takers lost under thick, toxic smog. Bucky watched it happen on the Quinjet’s screen. An occasional flicker of purple light in the smoke was the laser weaponry they’d been called in to deal with. Bucky would have rather been back home with Steve. It had been… His body against Steve’s warm one had been nice. If only Bucky could do his part. Part of him knew that Steve’s hands on his skin were a good thing. A different part of him thought that Steve’s fingers running down the seam between flesh and metal meant maintenance.

“Hey, Buck,” said Steve. “Come here a second.”

He was at the lockers and Bucky went over. His mere presence helped. Again and again, even with Hydra’s methods, he’d remembered Steve. He put his hand on Steve’s wrist briefly and that made him smile. He was beautiful. And casual touching was part of his therapy work.

“Hi, sweetheart,” said Steve. “Listen, that smoke’s pretty toxic. Nothing you want to be breathing, even if you’re in here. Do you think you can handle a full face-mask?”

“Show me.”

Bucky thought he wouldn’t stand it and he was right. Just looking at the thing - awful thing of rubber and metal - made sweat prickle along his back. It reminded him of bite-plates, black halos descending over his head to erase. He shut his eyes and he heard Steve put it away.

“The local PD let us use their station.” His hand squeezed Bucky’s metal one. Like usual, it felt like he was wearing a double layer of gloves. “It’s a few miles out, but Tony says we should get you loud and clear.”

“Okay.” Bucky opened his eyes, focusing on Steve’s hand on his. “Okay.”

“That’s my best guy.”

The evacuation was underway, all the roads packed with cars. There were only a few officers left and they were leaving the station when the Quinjet arrived. Probably to assist the evacuation, maybe because the Winter Soldier was going to be here. The sky had turned a sickly orange colour.

Bucky had the folded-up holo display in one hand, two knives and a solitary pistol on his person. He might be an Avenger, but he balanced his personal protection against people’s memories of DC. The face-mask - not the full one, but a more tolerable one that covered mouth and nose - might hide his face, but the metal arm was too distinctive.

“Be careful,” said Steve over the noise of the engines and the ramp. He flashed an _I love you_ sign - middle fingers on his right hand folded down - and Bucky repeated the gesture. It was a mere twenty feet to the ground and he dropped down easily, turning to watch the Quinjet roar off towards the tall pillar of smoke rising into the sky.

The station was a plain brick square with stairs leading up from the street into the entrance. From the half-drunk mug of coffee on the reception desk, the evacuation must have been announced suddenly. No one was in the main office either. One of the desks in the back was bare, and here Bucky set up the holo-display.

It showed multiple views, each Avenger’s PoV camera, the four drones, and even a plan of both the refinery and the police station Bucky was sitting in. After a lot of therapy, words came easier to Bucky these days. He could be on the monitors and give tactical information. So long as there were no strangers about to bring on his selective mutism.

He found a knot of hostages trapped by flames to be airlifted out. He found a place to make a firebreak. On Steve’s camera, he saw Steve kick a man through the air and, on the drone camera, two men trying to flank him.

“Steve, there’s one on your two o’clock, one on your seven.”

Steve took the fight to them, flinging his shield at Two O’Clock and tackling the other one. From personal experience, Bucky knew that felt like getting hit by a truck.

“Thanks, honey,” said Steve, moving on to the next fight.

Pet names he’d rediscovered early, even before solid food. He’d liked them because there was no mistaking what he and Steve were when they called each other baby, sweetheart, or anything else they thought up.

“Welcome, darling.”

“Just loving the geriatric flirting today,” said Tony. His camera was a jumble of machinery and flames as he tried to keep the main plant from going up. Vision crossed his view, fading through one wall and then another. “Makes me all fuzzy inside.”

The lights went out all around Bucky, but the diner next door was still lit up. His brain might be a mess of PTSD and broken flight-or-fight responses, but when something smashed through the window, he was already moving towards the side-door. In the corridor, he was partly shielded from the bright light of the flash-bang, but his ears started ringing. It was only a short run down to the emergency exit. He booted it open, then darted inside a file room. Everything still sounded like it was happening underwater, but he could hear booted feet drawing close.

There were two of them and as they went for the emergency exit, Bucky shot the closest one above the bullet-proof vest through the back of the neck. He could hear friendly voices in his earpiece. The first one swore, but he’d brought a rifle too long for the narrow doorway and it caught the door frame. Bucky grabbed it, yanking the man off balance, shoving his pistol into the underside of his chin and firing.

He let the body slump down onto the floor, his breathing ragged in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. That was two more on his ledger.

“Mr Barnes,” said FRIDAY in his ear, “I’m activating my emergency beacon programme. Help will be with you as soon as possible.”

Bucky stopped and picked up one of the rifles, pistol going back in its holster. One of the others would come for him soon. All he had to do was get some distance from this place. He started down the stairs into the side street, keeping his mind focused, keeping the panic attack at bay.

“Hey, Asset,” said a familiar voice. A man was standing outside, leaning against the wall like he was waiting for a bus. But he was wearing black armour plating and a helmet to match. The only colour was slashes of white. “You miss me?”

Bucky’s stomach lurched. No, no, no. Rumlow’s face was completely covered, but Bucky could picture the grin spreading across it. He’d seen it often enough. Looming above him reaching to touch with hard hands I got something for you Asset open your fucking mouth- His earpiece chirped twice in his ear. FRIDAY had activated the emergency beacon. Help was on its way.

“Not talking, huh? Well, I’m used to that.” Even when he started walking towards him, Bucky’s legs refused to move. “Used to piss me off, but I think I can get you to scream now.”

He charged and Bucky fired the rifle too late. A paltry few shots bounced off Rumlow’s armour and then he was on him. Bucky brought up his metal arm to block and was knocked to his knees. The rifle fell somewhere off to the right and Bucky scrambled to the left. In his head, he was being dragged into cryo to burn with cold. He was being led to the chair to forget.

“C’mon, where’s your fucking fight, Asset?” Rumlow was taking it slow. He always liked to draw things out when he could. “I’ve seen what you can do. Saw what you did to Cap. Nice work.” His hand fisted into Bucky’s hair and pulled. FRIDAY still chirped in his ear and Bucky could barely hear it over the roar of blood in his ears. His knife scraped down Rumlow’s armour with a scream. “It ain’t got nothing on what I’m going to do to you.”

Rumlow smashed Bucky’s fist against his armour again and again. He deflected Bucky’s wild, panicked punch with his left. Bucky’s numb fingers dropped the knife. He was being borne backwards to the ground, Rumlow on top. He tried to throw him off. He should’ve been able to do it. He could have torn through Rumlow like tissue paper. But he couldn’t make his body do it. Rumlow ground his hips down into Bucky’s and that was a threat; that took the last little fight out of him. His thoughts were tangled and too bright. And as soon as his metal shoulder hit the ground, Rumlow struck.

Rumlow brought his gauntleted fist down hard right into the metal and then Bucky screamed. Something broke inside. Pain bloomed, a thousand needle-like shards stabbing into him. Rumlow’s other hand was on his throat. Blood started to ooze from between the plates.

“That’s it! That’s what I’m talking about! They had you too fucking trained. Now I don’t gotta wait for them to put your brain through the blender.”

He lashed out again, closing one of Bucky’s eyes. Again and Bucky’s head was whipped to the side, teeth loose in his mouth. He couldn’t see Rumlow, just feel him straddling him, grinding his erection against Bucky’s stomach. He was pulling a knife from his shoulder holster.

“You feel that? Sorry I ain't got time to use it.” The metal was cold against Bucky’s neck. His metal arm twitched uselessly. “What I’m going to do is leave Cap your fucking head.”

Two shots bounced off Rumlow’s armour and then Sam barrelled into him feet-first. The wings passed over Bucky’s face, wind ruffling his hair. Then suddenly Sam was standing over him, Sam was kneeling with his wings out and an explosion made the remains of Bucky’s shoulder rattle. He lost time, he blacked out for a second from the pain. He couldn’t even land a punch on Brock Rumlow, who’d hurt him for his pleasure and sexual gratification, but he could wake up and immediately lash out at Sam, who’d never done anything but help.

“Easy, Bucky, easy.” Sam touched his earpiece, “Bucky’s down. I’ve lost sight of Rumlow.” Bucky’s earpiece had gone somewhere. Where’d it go? “I’ll tell him. Bucky, Steve’s on his way, I promise.” Steve, who’d promised to be careful. _Steve, Steve, Steve_. “Just let me take a look at that shoulder, okay?” 

Blood was coming out from his arm, running across the plates and the star that Steve had painstakingly painted white. It was pooling on the road. It was on Sam’s hands. The ghost of Rumlow’s hands was on Bucky too.

***

Crowley was fairly certain that neither Above or Below had invented the Takeaway, though he certainly took credit for it. It was not that takeaway was a sin in and of itself, though he’d once had a pizza in the 70s that had made him question that. But it was a fertile ground for sin and not just the big G’s, Gluttony and Greed. There was the low-level banked rage as someone else took the last spring roll, the late-night drunken fights outside kebab places, the little white lies every time someone pretended that that second garlic bread wasn't just for them. On the other hand, Aziraphale could probably spin it to his side easily enough. Probably with lots of gooey sentiment about shared community through eating.

The staff at Le Dish most certainly did not do take-away. Their food was meant to be eaten in delicate and expensive arrangements explained to the customers by the very intimidating wait staff. To do otherwise would make it all turn to ashes in your mouth. You might as well just throw it to the pigs. Not to their pigs, loving reared on forest-floor forage, mind. The kitchen staff were therefore very surprised to find themselves gently lowering polystyrene containers into a paper bag and then handing it over to a man wearing sunglasses at night and parked illegally on the pavement.

Crowley put the bag on the passenger seat, confident that the scallops and tempura egg yolks wouldn't dare fall out of place and drove at his usual speed to a certain bookshop in Soho. Aziraphale was outside waiting ready, a green bottle tucked under his arm and a tartan umbrella his sole defence against the rain. The angel beamed when he saw the Bentley park up and climbed into the front, moving the bag and umbrella into a better position. Naturally, the raindrops vanished before they even had the chance to touch the interior.

"Hello, my dear," said the angel, leaning over to kiss Crowley's cheek and nearly skewer him with the tip of his umbrella.

"Angel," said the demon, expertly manoeuvring the pointy end away from any fleshy parts.

"It smells divine," he said, pleased with himself over that little bit of wordplay. "And I'm sure I've chosen a very cheeky accompaniment in this wine."

He certainly cradled it carefully against his chest as Crowley barged through the London traffic and the wine was good. The sommelier at Le Dish would have bitten through a dozen corks to get a hold of that particular extinct vintage. The company was even better. There had always been something erotic about the way Aziraphale ate which puzzled Crowley a little. He was well aware of the power of let's say the chocolate-covered strawberry, a friend to any incubus or succubus. But there was something in the way his other half took to a fine silver of barbequed mackerel that just wormed its way past Crowley's defences. Possibly it was the honest enjoyment, honesty being something of a rarity Down Below. Add in the television playing softly in the background and it was all in all shaping up to be an excellent evening.

"Oh," said Aziraphale suddenly, fork suspended between one of Crowley's sleek designer plates - rarely used - and his mouth. "Look."

Superheroes were on the news again. Heroes had been a fertile battlefield for their kind in the last century or so. And ever since they had gotten stalked by a formerly-brainwashed assassin, Aziraphale was getting unusually up-to-date on something. Though even Crowley had gone to see one of those Captain America films back in the 40s. The way the camera panned across those young American bodies had made fertile grounds for sinning.

On the screen, there was a fire, not like Below, which tended towards cramped and damp. It then changed to someone's mobile footage of their former stalker, the Winter Soldier, being wheeled away on a stretcher.

"That poor boy," said Aziraphale. The two of them in this room were well-qualified to call a nonagenarian boy. "I had hoped he was having a better time after our help." Well, Crowley's help and Aziraphale's near obliterating Divine Forgiveness. But Crowley did not mention that out loud. He was not getting into another debate about the benefits of sleep.

“If you send a miracle overseas they’ll know something’s up,” he said, putting down his artfully tiny cup of coffee to pick up his very big glass of wine.

“Oh, I know.” 

Aziraphale put his fork into his mouth and spoilt the concerned effect he was going for by savouring the texture of beetroot three ways. Crowley could hear his toes curling in their sensible loafers. If he didn’t do something now, a sizable chunk of Soho was going to be marinating in angelic love and craving something “scrumptious”.

“I’m sure I can think of something to get your mind off it,” he said, literally slithering into Aziraphale’s side. The angel smiled back and offered him a forkful of his latest delicacy.

***

It was quiet at the Compound. No one felt like team dinner after listening to Bucky screaming and Steve’s attempts to soothe him enough to get a needle in. It had been a long five minutes until the painkillers kicked in. The hidden downsides of super-soldier serum.

Soon as they got back, Bucky got whisked off to medical, Steve by his side. It was bad. Sam had seen strange shapes where the arm met Bucky’s body. He wasn’t surprised if Bucky was going to lose a couple of teeth. Maybe a cracked orbit too. Even if Sam couldn’t patch that up, he could at least get the guys some home comforts. Once he got the text from Medical, he took the bag out of the fridge and headed down.

In Medical, they’d built a room just for Bucky. The guy needed therapists and doctors, but also had a deep, understandable fear of everything medical. There’d been more than a few challenges in those early days. The room had made it a little easier for him. It had soft lighting instead of harsh halogens. Art hung on the walls which were painted a soothing blue, except for the one that was one big window. In daylight, you could see right across the water. Bucky was in the middle, in the comfortable cot. Steve sat at his side among the dangling blood packs and quiet machines. He was stroking Bucky’s hair absently. In the corner, where there were nice couches for therapy, Tony was working at a holo display.

“Hey, Cap.” Sam held up the bag as Steve turned, “Got you both some-”

But Steve was already on the move and Sam was folded into one of his expansive hugs. At least someone had persuaded him to get a shower.

“ _Thank you_ ,” said Steve. “If you hadn’t-”

“Steve, come on. If we went around hugging every time we saved each other we’d never get anything done.”

“This one was different.”

You had to admit Steve had a point. Sam had never saved anyone from their own sadistic rapist before. Especially one that had a vendetta against just about everyone in this room.

“I’m just sorry I didn’t get hold of him.” He fished around in his bag until he came up with some wrapped sandwiches. “I know you haven’t been eating for worrying,” he said, shoving them into Steve’s hands. “You’re no good to Bucky without fuel.”

Steve obediently sat down and started eating. His eyes never left Bucky’s swollen face. Someone, probably Steve, had stripped him of his Kevlar and covered him with a warm blanket except for his arms… arm. The left one was gone from the elbow down, reduced to a stump and immobilised with dressings.

“They took it off?”

“They had to,” said Steve. He ignored his last sandwich, putting a protective hand over Bucky’s. “The shoulder’s broken and the weight of it... “ He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it right now and Sam wasn’t going to push it. FRIDAY had the audio. Thank God Sam had got there when he did. He just wished it had been sooner. Rumlow’s excited tone of voice made Sam want to shower.

“He’s pretty out of it on painkillers.” Steve managed to continue. “But they stopped the bleeding. Tony’s checking the scans now.”

“Tony’s wondering if any of those sandwiches are for him,” said Tony. “Be with you in a second.”

Under the blanket, Bucky shifted, his eyes opening a crack.

“Steve?” he said weakly.

“I’m here, baby. Ssh, ssh,” he said as Bucky started to tremble. “You’re safe. We’re back at the Compound. It’s just me, Sam, and Tony here. Don’t move around much, okay? Let me get you some water.”

Sam handed a bottle over from the bag, still cool from the fridge, and Steve held it to Bucky’s lips. He took a few shallow sips, but his jaw must be aching. The one side of his face was dark with bruising and swelling,

“Okay, super-soldier society,” said Tony. He got up and helped himself to the last sandwich, taking a fortifying bite. “I’ve looked over everything.”

“How bad is it?” said Steve.

“Well… visual aids.” He took out his phone and tapped a few times. The lights dimmed and delicate lines of light appeared over Bucky’s bandaged-up arm. Sam recognised it as the arm schematics. “So this was the last scan. Everything normal and happy etcetera, etcetera. Now, this-” He gestured and the lines changed. “-is what we got now.”

There was a jagged crack on the socket that anchored the arm to Bucky’s side. Sam winced, thinking of those sharp edges being pulled down through Bucky’s flesh. No wonder it had bled like that.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” said Tony.

“Can you fix it?” said Steve. Bucky said nothing, but his head lolled in the general direction of his broken arm.

“You see there’s the thing. I’ve seen what… that guy does with those gauntlets. It shouldn’t be enough to do that. But you zoom in and-” The lines changed once more. Must have been to microscopic scale because Sam couldn’t make head or tail out of it. “-you got these micro-cracks all the way through the structure. It’s metal fatigue. You know, like how metal gets when it cools rapidly. And repeatedly. Evil geniuses knew enough to put the arm on, but not enough to know it was a bad idea to put it in and out of cryo all those times.”

“Or they didn’t care.”

“A bad employer all round,” said Tony. “So I could fix the crack. But it would be hard and it’ll be weaker than it was. Another hit like that or maybe just a solid workout and it’ll break again. It’s going to be a full replacement or nothing.”

Bucky’s right hand curled into a fist.

“I got to design a new socket first.” Tony started ticking off on his fingers. “Then we got to install it and leave it in there for a few weeks before we put a new arm on.”

“A few weeks?” said Steve. “His hands are how he talks. That’s how he defends himself. You can’t-”

“Steve,” said Sam. “I’ve known plenty of people who lived without a limb. Without two.”

“The socket’s got to heal and set. I put another arm in straight away then the weight’s going to pull the socket _off_. And if you thought today was messy-”

“No.” Bucky was trying to shrink away through the cot. His right hand did the sign for _no_ ; his index and middle finger meeting his thumb. Sam could see what would happen next. Bucky was going to go for _surgery_ \- thumb down the missing left palm - and he tried to lift his stump. He screamed, his entire body going rigid.

“Honey, honey, honey.” Steve gently soothed him through it. “You’re okay, you’re safe. It’s okay.”

“Sorry, Bucky-bot,” said Tony, once Bucky had gasped his way through the pain. “This isn’t the kind of surgery you can skip. Those scary pieces of metal are near some important stuff. Can’t heal from a stab through the heart.”

Bucky was throwing the same two signs over and other. A flick of his right hand over his heart towards the wrapped-up star and a peck to his mouth and cheek. _Steve_ and… _kiss_? No, similar but this was the sign for _home_.

“Okay, we’ll go now. Just let me get everything together. I promise we’ll go.”

***

It was cold outside, normal for the middle of the night. Steve had gently covered up Bucky’s arms, but the air nipped at Bucky’s face. Cold reminded Bucky of cryo at the best of times and the pain when he breathed too deeply just added to it. But above him were Sam and Steve and the stars. The Compound was too well-lit to see many, unlike the pine forests of Italy. In Italy, he had just escaped Hydra for the first time and no surgery loomed. And he’d been warm and unafraid because Steve was holding him and he’d been hurt but never in the way Rumlow had hurt him as others had hurt him. The cold was making his shoulder ache even more. He could feel the strange new shape under his skin, new pressures. The way it shifted when he breathed.

Steve and Sam got him inside and home. The door closing behind the gurney was a sign of safety and Bucky knew all about safe spaces. There was the couch out of the corner of his eye, the kitchen and then his room - the one he didn’t share with Steve. It had his bookshelves, his files, the window overlooking the perimeter fence and the trees. There was a single hospital-style bed, reinforced against super-strength panic attacks. Someone flicked the lights on, dim and soothing.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Steve came into view. “We’re going to transfer you over now, just hang in there.”

He clicked the thing that made the painkillers come and the next thing Bucky knew he was tucked into bed. The covers were pulled beneath his chin, left arm - or what was left of it - hidden, right arm and its tubes resting on the cover. Across the room, Steve was laying the couch cushions on the floor. He’d changed into his sleeping stuff and Sam was gone. Probably in his room getting some sleep and Bucky hadn’t even thanked him for saving him from-

Hand in his hair pulling hard metal splitting under his skin hardness against-

“Bucky. Come back, Bucky Barnes.” Steve again, this time crouched by his bedside so he didn’t loom above him. He was all soft concern. “I know, honey, I know.”

Steve didn’t know. He’d hesitated just once in his whole life - _who the hell is Bucky?_ \- and he’d never been scrambling around in the street, too frightened to throw a fucking punch. Never been held down and... His throat refused to say it and now he couldn’t do much more than basic finger-spelling.

“I know what it’s like,” said Steve, probably entirely aware of what Bucky was thinking, “to have your body let you down.”

Oh. Yes, that was true. Disregarding Steve’s time in the ice, Steve had spent more time in his old body than this one. Years and years of struggling with even the basic act of breathing, coming to death’s door more than once. Last rites read over him once and Bucky refused the priest the second time. Steve had had his asthma and anaemia and his one bad eye and one bad ear and everything else. Bucky had his broken body and his broken brain. Still couldn’t do real simple stuff like cuddle for too long, still couldn’t get it up for his sweetheart even though he’d had zero problems getting hard for people like-

Bucky cut off the spiral by groping for Steve’s hand. He slid it through the bars to tangle their fingers together. It was nice, sometimes, to hold hands and not be under pressure to talk or sign. This was not nice. This was clinging to stop from drowning. As Bucky shuddered and tried to get his breathing under control, Steve’s thumb made gentle stroking motions.

“Can I tell you a story?” said Steve, after long minutes of Bucky trembling his way through a panic attack. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Bucky squeezed his hand in the affirmative and Steve squeezed back.

“When I first got unfrozen, I suddenly had all this time on my hands and nothing to fill it. The War was over and… I didn’t have anyone. Not really anyway.” He rubbed his mouth with his free hand. “So what I started to do was I’d divide the day up into chunks and just assign myself something. An hour working out. Half an hour for lunch. An hour just riding the trains and seeing where I ended up.”

Something must have shown on Bucky’s face because he got one of Steve’s happy-sad smiles in return.

“I know. Depressing, right? But then I met the others and I didn’t have to do it anymore. I just think those days would have been so much easier if someone had told me ‘it’s this long until you meet the Avengers’ or ‘this long until you meet Sam’.” He squeezed Bucky’s hand again. “I could have really used someone to tell me that you were alive.”

Bucky had been briefly unfrozen during the Chitauri Invasion, but not deployed. He’d thought about it before, what could have happened if he and Steve had been on the same streets then. Steve would’ve saved him from what happened when bored Hydra agent realised there was no point in sending the Asset back into cryo without-

“I know the thought of surgery is frightening, Buck. Anyone would be frightened. But I don’t want to see you spend your life in pain like this. After everything that’s happened, I want you to have a good life.”

Bucky closed his eyes, pressing his cheek into his pillow. Why did he deserve Steve and all his time and energy? Occasional kisses and good days couldn’t possibly balance it out. Steve squeezed his hand again. He hoped he wasn’t about to cry on top of everything else that had happened today.

“Tony sent me a schedule. There’s a medical team going through security checks right now. Four days to do that and fabricate a new socket. Then, at most, four weeks until you get your new arm. He says they can do it right this time. In one month you could have an arm that hurts less and does anything else you want. One month, honey.”

Fuck, he was crying. Somehow that was the worst thing. It was _embarrassing_ to burst into tears over Coca-Cola or because Wanda looked like one of his sisters for a second. He’d been the Winter Soldier. He’d been making progress. But even after all that expensive therapy, he was still a goddamn victim.

He tugged his good hand out of Steve’s, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand.

 _Need_ and _sleep_ he could do with one hand, but for _protect_ and _when_ he needed the other one. He spelt them out carefully. _Need P-R-O-T-E-C-T W-H-E-N sleep_.

“I promise I won’t leave your side. And if anyone tries anything-” To main, to experiment, to… to rape. “-I’ll kill them.”

His voice was flat and his eyes were serious. People forgot Captain America could kill too. Bucky blamed those awful films.

 _Will do it_ was a sentence that needed only the one hand in quick little gestures. That was a good thing. As soon as Bucky signed it, dread became a heavy ball in his stomach, spreading through his arms and legs. By the time Steve took his hand again, it was trembling violently.

“I know, sweetheart.” He hung on to Bucky’s hand, keeping his head above those dark waters. “It’s going to be okay. I love you.”

***

Aziraphale didn't have to take their rubbish down to the bins, not when there were better, more fun things he could be doing with Crowley instead. So he'd done a tiny Miracle and let himself be dragged off to Crowley's big, expensive bed. Both of them were much too busy to pay attention to anything short of nuclear war. Certainly too busy to think about things neatly miracled into the correct bins. The dark figure lurking nearby was not too busy at all. They picked up a polystyrene container, rummaged through a paper bag. Their hands said human but hinted toad. Their mouth said teeth.

Satisfied, they put the evidence back, licking their fingers. Anticipation was half the pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to post one chapter a week as I rewrite the first draft. Hope to see you all for the next one. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Steve’s nightmares were mostly about falling. There was the one where he was plunging towards the ice again, Arctic wind trying to peel the flesh from his bones as he dove towards the ice. And then there was the train. In real life, it had only been seconds until the snow and the train had whipped Bucky out of sight. He wasn’t so lucky in dreams. There it was an awful drawn-out moment. No detail was spared; Bucky’s wide-eyed terror; the scream of breaking metal; the single inch between his hand and his sweetheart’s.

He woke up with a start, heart thundering, fists clenched hard enough to hurt. The blood rushing in his ears was louder than the howling Alpine winds. Steve held his breath until the quiet of Bucky’s room took over. Bucky needed his sleep. But somehow Bucky always knew.

Nightmares were always followed by Bucky. It used to be a trade-off between them, Steve interrupted Bucky’s nightmares, Bucky would do the same for him. Even when they slept separately, he’d soon appear in the doorway, quieter than a ghost. Across the room, Bucky’s hand slid through the bars.

“I‘m okay, Buck.” The couch cushions and blanket were out of alignment and Steve was partly sprawled across the floor. He straightened up, sat up. “It was just a dream.”

Bucky made a noise somewhere between a growl and a frustrated sigh.

"I _know_.”

His fingers beckoned and Steve stood up, quilt and cushions abandoned. Upright, he could see Bucky now. He looked smaller, bracketed by the guards of his bed and the pillows that stopped him from rolling over onto his injured shoulder. And of course, his truncated arm. Steve had tied his hair up last night, after a long battle with touch issues and dry shampoo. It drew attention to the deep bruising along the left side of his face. The swelling had almost completely gone down, but the one eye was half-shut still and an awful yellow colour. But he was alive. Alive and wrapped in soft things instead of ice and metal. 

Steve's body went to him of its own accord. He kept himself to himself. Touching was minimal at the moment with Bucky in pain like this and recovering from what Rumlow did. But he could fold his arms on top of the guard, put his head down on them and take his comfort from being close yet at a distance Bucky could currently handle. Bucky smelt bad. Painkillers made him too warm and there was only so much a sponge bath could do. That was another minefield in of itself. He couldn’t even get Bucky a glass of water because today he was nil by mouth.

“I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Wasn’t asleep.”

“I could’ve stayed up with you.”

Bucky’s hand absently plucked at his blanket and Steve watched him do it. Coping methods were a mixed bag. He had healthier ones these days, but the older ones… Sam had told him something once about how every trauma response had once been a survival mechanism. Even that time he’d tried to gnaw off his own fingers. What had had it been like the first time, when Hydra had removed more and more of his arm to fit the metal one? There still were whole years of which Bucky remembered only flashes. For once, Steve was grateful for that.

Bucky’s hand formed a ‘T’ and flourished it. That was his sign for Tony. The little phone sign he made was obvious. Dutifully, Steve checked both their phones. There were a lot of good luck messages, but nothing from Tony calling off surgery today. No miracle cure for Bucky.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He hated seeing how Bucky’s face crumpled. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to be there the whole time. Less than ten feet away." He let his hand dangle in case Bucky wanted it. “I could bring the shield.”

“Yes.”

Bucky’s hand crept up to Steve’s. His fingers were hot and shaking. Steve would find the man who did this. He’d see to it personally that Rumlow would rot in the highest security prison that they could find. Then maybe he’d know something of how Bucky had suffered. He gently squeezed Bucky’s fingers.

“You want to get up? Catch some TV?”

Bucky shook his head and clung on to Steve’s hand. With his eyes closed, he almost looked peaceful unless you knew his every mannerism. Steve could see the tension in the corners of his mouth. On the bedside table, the clock ticked down to zero-hour.

***

Aziraphale didn’t have to go down to the shop that morning - it wasn’t like he wanted customers - but for a sniff at a rare book, Aziraphale would certainly… well still not open, but he would cocoon himself in the back with his phone to his ear and an infinite supply of hot chocolate. And while he was locked away in a fugue of paper and ink, there was no one to make sad eyes when Crowley was dealing with the plants. Crowley was in the middle of one of his random spot checks - the ones where he’d pause and examine a leaf for just a moment too long - when something started making grinding noises in his kitchen.

All appeared well at first in the immaculate space he used for making coffee and filling the plant mister. He glared at the dishwasher, the cabinets, the oven. He opened the fridge which was empty apart from some nicely chilled wines despite not being plugged in. Then above the pristine white sink, the tap started rattling violently. As Crowley watched, it shook from side to side, twisting round and round in its place. Then the hot tap slowly spun up.

The faucet vomited a splatter of brown. It dodged the plughole and climbed up the sides out of the sink in defiance of physics. Like it was filling an invisible glass, the water became something human-shaped.

“Crawley,” said the mouth as it appeared piece-by-piece. First the lower jaw with its picket of teeth, then the tongue as it lolled out over them. Crowley didn’t recognise him, even when the toad-like eyes popped into existence, two jaundiced yellow bubbles with a horizontal pupil.

“Wotcha,” he said, waving with the hand that held his plant mister. The other demon followed it with his eyes, apart from a quick glance at the top of the nearest door. Looking for buckets. Crowley casually put the mister down, flicking a stray droplet from his fingers. It went nowhere near the sink dweller, but there was a definite flinch there before he drew himself back up. Both demons stood there for a long moment.

“Pruflas?” said the other demon, breaking first.

“Oh right,” said Crowley. “You were in…” He snapped his fingers absently.

“ _De praestigiis daemonum_.”

“Oh yeah, in the Appendix. So what do you want then? Thought Below was giving Earth a wide berth these days.”

Pruflas puffed himself up with what Crowley would have maliciously called a ribbit.

“So say the Princes. But I didn’t Fall to put myself under the yoke of another autocratic hierarchy. I say why not come back to the human world.”

Was this a version of an idealist for Hell? The kind of idealist that brought to mind a uni student with a blazer covered in badges.

“That’s nice,” said Crowley.

“So we’re banding together to remove stubborn obstacles to bring in a new order.”

“And let me guess?” Crowley drifted over to his shelves, an exercise in trendy minimalism. There were acres of space that Aziraphale would sometimes try to fill with books. “That involves getting rid of the old order. Not going after the big S, are you?”

Pruflas hastily glanced over his shoulder like Satan himself was about to clamber out of the plughole, a manoeuvre that would have warped reality across half of London.

“Not… initially. But you, demon Crawley, will be-” And that was it for Pruflas because you didn’t live through the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t without learning a few lessons. Lessons like keeping a lead pipe in your flat disguised as a very minimalist piece of art.

He hit Pruflas in the mouth first, scattering pointy teeth all over the floor. What happened next was a bit of a blur for Crowley, but the best bit about his fashionable kitchen was that all those tiles were easy to clean. 

He came to with his shoulders burning and something the consistency and colour of tar running off his weapon. Wouldn’t stop Pruflas for good, but it would send him back to where he came from. Probably for good unless he could come up with a very good reason he was up here on Earth. Despite that, Crowley was running down to the street, taking the stairs two or three at a time. If demons were taking it upon themselves to remove the old order, then there was only one other creature on this planet that had been there as long as he had.

***

At some point, Steve opened the book on Bucky’s bedside table and started reading it out loud. Bucky let the words wash over him. If he couldn’t concentrate on the story then he’d at least reduce it all down to the sound of Steve’s voice. It was better than what he saw when he slept. When he closed his eyes, all he got was-

weight of Rumlow on his thighs excited pants of hot sour breath on his face

-what had happened. And outside of sleep, everything ached. The painkillers made him nauseous and stupid, but without them, Bucky couldn’t even move his head without pain. Then Steve sighed and said,

“It’s time, honey.”

Bucky looked over at him, wincing at the sight of the radiation suit on the book’s cover. It didn’t look like Rumlow at all. Not really. But the black gas mask still made his empty stomach churn.

The wheelchair was folded in the corner ready. Sam had brought it over yesterday and sat with him while Steve went and showered. The expression on Steve’s face had been the same then, outwardly calm but readying himself to push his way through the situation. Some things never changed.

“Do you need help getting up, Buck?”

He’d be gentle, he’d be very careful. He was not Rumlow. But Bucky trembled at the thought of his sweetheart lifting him up out of bed.

“Let’s sit you up,” said Steve in his soothing voice. “Maybe that’ll help.”

The controls to Bucky’s bed were in easy reach clipped onto the guard rail by his pillow. He hadn’t felt up to much other than lying down on his back lately. Steve manipulated the controls to sit Bucky up then held out his hand. Bucky could handle one hand. He’d held onto it today. It helped that Steve didn’t do anything more than keep still like he was an inanimate handhold.

“I’m going to support your arm now,” he said when Bucky got a grip. “I’ll put my right hand on the end, is that okay?”

It wasn’t much more than a whisper but Steve heard his “yes” and gently cupped the stump of his left arm. Bucky couldn’t feel it through the padding. Together, they got Bucky up on his feet, a laborious and slow process. He felt light-headed. A headache was like a rat scrabbling in the back of his skull. His shoulder made itself known through the painkillers. His heart hammered itself against his ribs so close to the tattered deadly edges of his shoulder. He dropped heavily into the chair just to make it end. Steve was next to him, keeping up a litany of pet names. He was standing, looming above him like-

reaching out knife in hand you feel that sorry I ain’t got time to use it

“Bucky, honey.”

Steve was kneeling now, one hand on the arm of the chair. There was a blanket thrown over Bucky and he dug his finger into the fabric. It didn’t help. He could still feel Rumlow on his neck, on his stomach and thighs. But Steve was not him.

“Ed Albosta,” said Steve softly, “Johnny Allen, Mace Brown, Hugh Casey.”

“Chipman,” Bucky managed to get out. Listing things was a neat trick. Thank you, Sam Wilson.

“1941 was a great year,” said Steve, trying to hide his concern. Didn’t work on Bucky. “Wait here a minute.”

He got up, and he did it by shuffling away on his knees just so he wouldn’t loom. Over by the window was Bucky’s reading area, with a comfortable armchair and a little table. Steve picked up something from there, something that fitted in the palm of his hand.

“I didn’t want to mess up any of your self-soothing things so I made one for you.”

He knelt again, doing that ridiculous shuffle to get close, and held out his hand. It was a little bag, simply made by a piece of old fabric folded and sewn together. It looked like one of Steve’s old shirts and it smelt like him too. There were things inside but Bucky ignored them in favour of holding it up to his nose. Steve’s smell with just a hint of aftershave, no gunmetal, no hospital smell. He drew it in, holding in in his lungs.

Steve got up, walked behind him to push the chair. Bucky held the cloth close. It was only Steve behind him.

“Let’s get going.”

***

Aziraphale had trained himself to ignore customers rattling the door. Like many humans in retail, he had long since discovered that other humans would ignore closed signs even very clear ones like his own that covered every possible eventuality or combination of opening hours. Therefore Aziraphale only looked up from his book at the tinkle of glass. He took a fortifying sip of hot cocoa before getting up, cradling his book in one arm against his chest. If turned out to be another super-person standing in his shop, begging forgiveness for discorporating him… well, he still would happily dole out some Divine Forgiveness. He’d just rather be reading at this moment, thank you.

At the door into the shop proper, he paused. There was a smell like wet steel and cold mud. It made him bristle inside; an angel would always recognise the smell of a demon. Crowley’s smell was of hot summer sun and rocks suitable for sunning yourself on and stylish colognes, though that last one was due to his excellent barber. Aziraphale carefully took a step back. Something scraped across the door and found the handle.

The demon on the other side was human-shaped, but its flesh was embedded with metal shards. It grinned, showing off teeth that were silvery-sharp.

“‘Ello,” it said with a scream of scraping metal.

Aziraphale flung his mug into its face. It staggered backwards, spitting out shards of pottery, tearing open new wounds on its face with its shiny metal claws. There was enough space for Aziraphale to squeeze through, scurrying through shelves and stacks until he reached the door. His lovely hand-stitched shoes crunched over the glass. There was movement in the dim spaces of his shop.

“Angel!” screamed metal behind him and Aziraphale turned just in time to catch a knife in the chest.

Luckily, he was still carrying his book, a complete guide to Catholic saints, over ten thousand of them plus more than a few lost to human history. Still the knife went all the way through to St. Servatius, the patron saint of foot disease and protection against mice. Aziraphale staggered back, demon enfolding him into his arms…

Whereupon they promptly fell in front of a red London double-decker bus. Neither of them were glad to know that there were several saints of accidents and motorists that might have been watching.

***

It was coming up on eight in the morning and there was no one about. Steve had chosen the scenic route for that very reason. That and the surrounding woods past the perimeter fence were a riot of colour, something that Steve hoped could distract Bucky. Bucky was swathed in his blanket, watching it go by. His panic attack had tired him out and maybe that was for the best. At least the little bag he’d made was being helpful. Bucky had dug in and found the acorn. He was rolling it around in his one hand, stroking it with his thumb. Texture, according to Bucky’s therapist, was effective. And maybe it had been a good project for Steve. A distraction from the fact there'd been a massive knock to his sweetheart’s confidence, physical health, and mental health.

He shouldn’t have left Bucky behind in that police station. The chances of Rumlow breaking into the Quinjet were much lower than breaking into an empty building. But what could he have done instead? Forced Bucky into a full-face mask? Made him breathe in toxic air? Most of his nightmares were of falling but Rumlow saying “You feel that?” had started to feature prominently. The shield on his back made him feel a little better, but not much.

They turned a corner and there was the Medical Building. Bucky’s room was on the other side, facing the water. Surgery was hidden inside.

“Steve,” said Bucky.

He’d sunk into his seat, drawing away from the building. Steve fought down his guilt. It had to happen. He’d go through the surgery on Bucky’s behalf if he only could.

“I know,” he said again. He’d said that on the Quinjet, repeating soothing things he was only half aware of as he tried to help. He started up again, listening to Bucky digging himself deeper into his blanket. By the time they got to the door, Bucky had gone pale.

Tony was already in the room. He was most certainly not wearing surgical scrubs or a white coat and his on-purpose, sold-like-that faded Black Sabbath T-shirt was comforting.

“Hey, guys,” he said, putting his phone down on the low table.

“Hi, Tony.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, but he did manage a small nod. Steve wheeled him over to the couches and then sat down next to him. There was a cot pushed to one side of the room, almost casually, soft pillow waiting. The shield he rested on the floor next to him.

“So,” said Tony, “I’m told I got some forms for you to sign, Bucky-bot. And I got to give you a run-down of… what we’re doing today. Nice, legal, consensual, all that jazz.”

Bucky threw a longing glance outside to the trees and the water. His knuckles were white. Steve should have gone onto his other side. He was on his left and there was no hand to hold there.

“Today,” said Tony, “we’ve split the whole thing into three stages. Stage one.” The lights dimmed and the holo-display brought up a diagram of Bucky’s arm and his torso. The metal was starkly white against his flesh. “We take the rest of the arm off. Would have done it the first time round, except there’s a lot of complicated stuff where it meets the socket.” The display erased the remains of Bucky’s arm, leaving the broken socket behind. If only it was that easy to do in real life. 

“Stage two is taking the socket out. Now I’m told we’re taking it slow so we get all the loose metal we can, which sounds good to me.” He thumbed himself in the chest. “I’m pretty much the expert on shrapnel.” The display erased the socket, leaving one side of Bucky vulnerable for a brief moment before a different design appeared. “And stage three, the new socket. Put it in, let it heal up, and in a month’s time we’ll see about stage four.”

Bucky cradled his left arm in his right, his fingers smoothing the frozen plates. Basic self-soothing. Steve touched the arm of the chair, leaning in-

“Hey, Barnes, how about a sneak peek at your new arm?”

Bucky blinked, his hand tightening briefly on his old arm. Then he turned towards Tony, his hand going into his lap.

“Not going to lie, but I’ve been throwing around ideas for a couple of years now. And that’s why,” he brought up a new file, “I might have saved myself a smidgen of vibranium from the whole Ultron thing. Because c’mon like the two of you could resist the matching shield and arm thing.”

The old schematic was side-by-side with a newer one. Tony had kept the plates of the outer structure, but the inner structure was different.

“The outside’s going to be pure vibranium like the shield. We didn’t have enough to do the same for the insides, so you’re looking at a vibranium-titanium alloy there. But together it should weigh the same as your other arm. And not to mention the other goodies in the works. Talking about a heating/cooling system, integration with FRIDAY, flame decals, whatever you want.”

Bucky hand opened and closed like nonsense sign, his eyes tracing the sleek lines of the arms. Open, close, open, close. Then he lifted it, spelling out _T-R-A-C-K-I-N-G C-H-I-P_.

“Buck-” said Steve, but Bucky cut him off with a shake of his head. On the screen, FRIDAY was translating.

 _Find me_ , Bucky said with a flick of his one hand and then the single deliberate prod in the middle of his own chest. Bucky had had his earpiece in, which also functioned as a tracking device. But if Rumlow had taken it, if Rumlow had found the small GPS unit in Bucky’s uniform… but Bucky was moving his hand again, tapping the star on his bicep, just visible above the padding on the end.

“Tracking chip, star, easy. And you got any other ideas you can let me know. I like a challenge,” said Tony, brightly. Once, Tony had smashed his way into Steve’s apartment to kill Bucky. Once, Bucky had run Howard and Maria Stark off the road and killed them both.

Tony had a slim file on the table and he opened it, turning it to face Bucky. The heading in stark black letters said Medical Consent Form. There was a pen ready.

“Just got to get your signature down. We’re all about consent in the Avengers.”

Bucky looked down at the paper like it was poisonous. After a long, long moment, he put his little bag down on his lap and reached over. He signed James Buchanan Barnes in his lovely handwriting. As soon as he dropped the pen, his hand started to tremble.

“Thanks.” Tony waved to the screen standing in the corner of the room. “It’s all set up for you behind there, okay?”

Steve got up and wheeled Bucky over. He’d gone into the bag again, pulling out another of Steve’s choices, the picture of the entire team he’d folded up in there. That had been the summer’s big barbeque, Bucky at the end of the table next to Steve. Both of them looking happy, Bucky even leaning into Steve with a smile on his face.

Behind the screen, he tucked Bucky’s hair into a surgical cap. There was a paper gown too, but though Bucky unzipped his sweater, his fingers froze on the waistband of his sweatpants. He was pale as the dressings that covered his left side, his eyes would be wide if the left wasn’t still half-closed.

Steve put the gown back on the cart, kneeling again in front of Bucky.

“Hey. It’s okay. You keep them on.”

Bucky’s fingers let go one-by-one, going up to his bandaged stump.

“They’re… working up here.”

“I know. So they won’t need to take your pants off.” Bucky’s hand was massaging the smooth metal. “Does it hurt?”

He nodded. Bucky did look tired, and Steve probably didn’t look any better. And there weren’t going to be any breaks any time soon. Rumlow was still out there. Bucky would need support, every fear heightened now that he was one arm down, less able to defend himself or communicate.

“You’re almost there,” he said, looking at the contents of the bag spread out on Bucky’s lap. A scrap of an old shirt, an acorn, a picture, a little stress ball. These were the meagre bits of help he could offer right now. “Just make it to the bed and all you have to do is sleep. It’ll be over in a second for you. And I promise you I’ll watch you the entire time.”

“I know,” he said. _Thank you_ , he said with his one hand.

Carefully he replaced every item back in the little sewn bag and clutched it tightly. He pushed up and out of the chair, staggering but easing himself straight, blanket over his shoulders like a cape. Steve loved him for how afraid he was and how he’d gotten up anyway. It had been that way more than once, in war, in Bucky’s life after Hydra. He trailed after him, watching the edge of the blanket lapping at Bucky’s heels. Tony had the cot out in the middle of the room already and Bucky lowered himself down.

On the table, a bright yellow plastic tray had appeared. There was a syringe, a little bottle, and a printed note with the dosage on it. Steve carried the whole thing back to the bed. Bucky watched as he filled it, but when the time came he couldn’t bring himself to move his arm.

Steve searched out his hand, squeezing it through the blanket.

“You’re almost there, Buck. Almost there.”

Bucky’s face was absolutely stricken. He was shaking. His hand, when it finally emerged, was closed in a fist around Steve’s little bag. Steve gently covered it, taking a deep breath.

“Sharp scratch,” he said. “Start counting back from one hundred, okay?” The hand in his was so warm. “I love you so much.”

The needle went in easily - Bucky voicing the tiniest grunt - and then it was done. Bucky’s mouth shaped words - ninety-eight, ninety-seven, quatre-vingt-seize - and Steve counted along with him. At ninety, Bucky’s blinks became slow and languid. At sechsundachtzig, his eyes were closed and at eighty-two, his breathing was easy and slow. Steve knew the sound of Bucky sleeping. Every time he heard it was a miracle.

“He out, Cap?”

Steve leant in. Asleep, Bucky looked so young and vulnerable. The bruises only helped that. His hand was slack underneath his.

“He’s out.”

Tony tapped the screen.

“Everyone’s standing by. Just waiting on you two.”

“Okay.” Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead, just under the cap. “Tony. I lost him once. Please take care of him.”

Tony dropped a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s in the best hands.”

Out in the corridor, there was the sound of gurney wheels and conversation. Steve unhurriedly slung the shield onto his back again. He took the bag from Bucky’s hand, giving his fingers a last squeeze.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

***

When no one was looking, Crowly dug around underneath the bus. He pulled out the knife first, nasty twisted thing forged from - he cautiously licked it - the sword of Hernan Cortez if he wasn’t mistaken. The next thing he pulled out was Aziraphale’s book, pages tumbling from the binding. He shoved the loose ones into his jacket and then took it all into Aziraphale’s shop. He looked calm and that was because he’d passed the stormy waters of rage and was now floating in the calmer seas of bloody incandescent. When he closed the door behind him, the glass started to tumble back into place and the lock repaired itself.

So Aziraphale was discorporated. That meant he was out of Crowley’s reach for now. There was only so far he’d get in Heaven before someone new got the bright idea of trying holy water again and wiped him out of existence entirely. Holy water was bloody everywhere up there. He had to trust in Aziraphale’s knowledge of the system. The angel had gotten back to Earth before by hitching a ride and there had to be a spiritually-attuned mind somewhere nearby. Which meant - he sniffed the air - he had at least three more demons to shove back Downstairs and make it safe for the angel. He could handle that. It would be a pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Steve's reading to Bucky is 'This is the Way the World Ends' by James K. Morrow. Specifically, the SF Masterworks cover with the radiation suit on the cover.
> 
> St. Servatius is a real saint. He also covers rheumatism and the city of Maastricht. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and for all your kind kudos!


	3. Chapter 3

Steve was exactly where Sam thought he would be. The operating theatre had a small gallery where you could sit and watch from behind glass. Thankfully, it hadn’t seen much use and that was nothing sort of miraculous considering their jobs. Steve sat right in the middle, looking down on what could be seen of Bucky's face between the oxygen mask and the cap. Up here the lights were dim, compared to the bright ones below, and the shield was the brightest thing in the gallery. It was leaning against Steve's legs in easy reach.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Cap.”

Even when Sam sat down next to him, Steve didn’t take his eyes off Bucky. But Steve’s best quality was his loyalty. Being a stubborn and reckless dumbass didn’t affect that.

“Everything going okay?”

“They said it’s going well. I get updates through the intercom.” He made a vague gesture towards the ceiling. “They’re almost ready to put in the new socket. Just a few more plates to go.”

One of the blue-shrouded figures below was putting some of those plates into a sharps bin. Each one was bloodied. Some were jagged.

“I’m doing okay, Sam. You didn’t have to check on me.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing a favour for Bucky here.” That got his attention. “Turns out he had this crazy idea that Steve Rogers is flesh and blood like the rest of us.”

“Bucky asked you?”

“Yesterday, while you were showering. He figured you needed someone to look in on you.”

Steve covered his mouth with his hand. If anyone ever wanted to see a super soldier in agony, Sam would say do something kind for them. Bucky had made a similar face when Sam had said he'd check in today.

“If you need a break-”

“No.” Steve took his hand away, shook his head. “Thank you, Sam, but I promised him. And no offence but you can’t break through this glass without hurting yourself.”

“Like that, huh?” He reached out for Steve’s shoulder, “Remember the security check we put these guys through? The one Natasha did? There’s less than a tenth of a percent that you’re going to have to leap through any glass today.”

“I know. But…” Steve put both his hands on the shield, curling his fingers around the rim. “Sometimes I think about… his old life. And I think about all those people that crossed his path, all the people who put him in cryo, the ones who armed him, the doctors that treated him. All those people saw the situation he was in, but none of them stepped in. You saw the files. That stops now. So long as I’m around, Bucky’s always going to have someone to step in.”

“He got more than that,” Sam said. “He’s got a lot of people here who love him. Maybe not as much as you do, but we’d step in too.”

“Thank you, Sam,” said Steve in an unsteady voice.

“It’s nothing. Remember what you told me back when Bucky turned up again? You said I’d like the guy and I do. Great taste in literature. Weird taste in guys.”

“Hey!” said Steve, suddenly laughing and surprising himself with it.

“I call them as I see them.” Sam leant in, nudging Steve with his shoulder. “I know it doesn’t seem fair, especially with how well he was doing. It’s a pretty big setback and what’s happening to him is a traumatic event, but he can get there again with the right support. And that’s why when he gets out of here I’m going to watch him while you catch some sleep-”

“I don’t-”

“-in your own damn bed, not some cushions on the floor. I know that you _can_ survive on cat naps and spite, but that doesn’t mean you should. A few hours in bed and you’ll be in much better shape to take care of him.”

Down in surgery, a blue-suited figure waved up at them.

“Hey, surgery fans,” said Tony through the intercom, “we’re into the home stretch. New socket’s going on now.” Behind him, a million dollar’s worth of surgeons were bent over Bucky’s shoulder. Someone else was taking away the old core, bloody circles lying on a tray. “Not long now, Cap.”

Steve straightened up his shoulders, sitting up. His eyes never left Bucky.

***

There were so many minds on Earth these days. Seven billion, nearly eight, and all springing from the same garden. But to find a mind that could hold an angel… that was getting harder and harder. Used to be that an angel could find a half-starved, half-mad hermit under every bush. They were used to hearing the voices of angels. But there were suitable minds out there. If not a sensitive then at least one with enough cracks to slip in, at least one with experience in sharing with another mind ( _like a dark, still pool, a clockwork mind_ ) without breaking. Aziraphale dove in. 

***

The Asset opened his eyes. Above him was a plain white ceiling, which was not unusual. Everything else was not standard procedure. He was surrounded by fluffy blankets, thick pillows, a comfortable mattress. The clothes on his body were not combat-ready, but soft and loose. He was warm. A face appeared, blond hair, blue eyes.

“Hey there,” he said, and that was not standard procedure either. Handlers did not use soft tones and words. They were told to be blunt, to be harsh. “Babying will not be tolerated,” someone had said, but he couldn’t remember who. 

“I thought you’d sleep forever,” continued the Handler. “How’re you feeling?”

The Asset was suffering no post-cryo symptoms. Perhaps he had been sedated soon after emerging and had slept through the burning. Sometimes his fingertips would be in agony for hours making shooting painful. Perhaps he had just been to the Chair? But there was such a wealth of memories, too many to catalogue. Whatever had happened, the Asset knew what to say. It had been imprinted deep onto his bones.

“Ready to comply.”

The Handler made a face. Somehow the Asset’s response had been incorrect, but he was not permitted to feel dread at the thought of what was coming. Things do not have fears. He remained still, expressionless, inwardly bracing himself.

“No, sweetheart.”

The Handler put his hands on the guardrail of the bed. Hands like that, strong long-fingered hands, would be more than capable of causing hurt without long-term damage to the Asset’s performance.

“Listen to me, okay?” said the Handler. “No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe here. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You live here with me in the Avengers Compound. This is your room and your bed. You escaped from Hydra almost three years ago and you’ve been free ever since.”

Yes, Washington DC, smelling of smoke and river water. A man lying in the mud in red white and blue. Wandering the world, mute and always half-starved, half-dead on his feet, living a grey blur of a life until he’d seen a man - _this_ man - red white and blue, fighting a creature called Ultron on the news. He’d come back. Back to New York, back to… 

“Steve,” croaked Bucky. It had been so easy to slip back into that mindset, a weapon ready to be put into someone else’s hands. But this was home and the Avengers didn’t need a brain-washed killer.

"Hi, Bucky Barnes," said Steve - his fella, the best guy in the world, the object of Bucky's affections since he was six years old - and he reached over and stroked Bucky’s hair gently. “It’s all over now. You’re safe.”

And that set Bucky off. To be safe, to have a place that he lived in with _house plants_ and _books_ and _sign language_ , which had given Bucky back his voice. Safe. Sign for safe: two fists breaking apart. The whole scene blurred shamefully in front of Bucky’s eyes.

“I know.” Steve came in with the Kleenex. “I know, honey.”

Bucky mutely submitted to having his face wiped down gently. His body felt hyper-aware of noise, like the sound of his own breathing and the whisper of fabric. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he’d hear the slow beat of Steve’s heart too.

"It went well," said Steve, "in case you were worried. Sam and I were watching the whole time.”

Bucky moved his fingers and only the right ones responded. His shoulder and chest felt tender but muted, a hundred miles away. New painkillers. Blessed painkillers.

“Can-” he screeched. Steve reached over and came back with a bottle of water. It was glorious and cool, running down the back of his throat. “Can I see?” he said.

“Honestly, there’s not much to see under the dressings. You look like Claude Rains on the one side.” Steve tightened the cap back on the water bottle, putting it off to one side. “Give me a second.”

Bucky’s soft quilt was tucked in under his chin and Steve had to reach over slowly so as not to spook him. The air prickled the bare skin that wasn’t covered by bandages, which wasn’t much. Fresh white pads covered his left chest and shoulder and down to-

Empty space down where his left arm should be. Bucky gagged at the sight of it. No sign of his poor arm from the elbow up. Just nothing. Length of shoulder then plain white sheets and nothing else. Saliva was pooling in his mouth even though he had nothing left to throw up.

Quicker than before, Steve whipped the blanket back over. There was still that area of flat blanket to contend with. Bucky shut his eyes, taking calming breaths.

When Sam had taught him that, Bucky had been surprised at the memory of doing breathing exercises in Basic. Eight in, eight out. That had been the first time someone had found him to be a natural sharpshooter and he’d taken that with him overseas and off the side of the train.

When he opened his eyes again, Steve was hovering. Classic Steve concern was writ large over his face. Sometimes that concern was justified.

“I’m okay,” he said, fighting down a slight wobble. He didn’t need two crying fits in one day. “I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry, Buck,” said Steve. His hand came down, touching Bucky’s cheek with just his fingertips. Maybe it was the painkillers or how tired he was, but Bucky didn’t mind it. He leant in and Steve cupped his cheek.

“It’s fine,” he said, his stubble scratching Steve’s palm. His brain brought up all the right signs he could use, but he was down one arm and the remaining one was so, so tired. “I don’t… It’s all in flashes. Losing the arm.” There was the fall, Steve screaming into the wind, getting smaller and smaller. Rest of it, rest of that - month, year, years? - time had only surfaced as bright, jagged pieces of trauma. “It’s like it was just there.” Like he’d blinked and his left arm was replaced in no time at all. No time to mourn, even if he had been allowed to feel things like that. Steve’s thumb made a soothing sweeping motion. His fella did have lovely big hands. Good hands for fighting, for art, for sign language.

“It won’t be long, I promise.”

Bucky nodded, the tiredness in his arm creeping up to his head and down to his legs. These were definitely different drugs to the ones pre-surgery. Maybe that was because he was over the worst trauma, tucked in and warm. Safe. Never going back. Layers of security and Avengers between him and Rumlow.

“Can you?” he said, eyelids heavy. “Arm.”

Steve took his hand away and lifted the blanket again. There was the mass of bandages. No arm, just dressings and batting covering a new socket. To be continued. No one had touched him to harm. Steve had kept him safe.

“You should get some sleep,” said Steve, putting the blanket back. “You’re still fighting off the anaesthesia.”

“Strong stuff,” slurred Bucky.

“Only the best for my baby.”

He started stroking Bucky’s hair again because Steve had some good ideas sometimes. Kindness for days. His fella was all the good and tender things that Bucky had almost forgotten by the time he dragged himself into Avengers Tower. Bucky wondered where his old arm was, whether they had a chance to say goodbye, but the drugs were taking over again and it was easy to close his eyes and let himself drift off. 

***

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Considering the planet as a whole, he felt relieved to see a promisingly normal white ceiling above him, the only noise the splatter of rain on an unseen window. His borrowed body was tucked up in bed and he lifted it onto his elbows to examine his surroundings. Elbow as it turned out. The left arm was gone and the dressings extended over half of the body’s broad chest. At least that was a potential reward. Regrowing the arm might be hard to explain, but Aziraphale had lots of time to think of a story.

Naturally, the first thing that caught his eye was the shelves that covered one wall. There was a decent amount of books for a civilian, even if some of the covers were rather more colourful than Aziraphale’s usual reads. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad here if he could hole up in this room with reading material. On the floor, a man was sleeping on an air mattress, face hidden by an outflung arm. The quilt had fallen to his waist revealing the body of one of the better-mannered Greek Gods. Outside the large window there was rain, trees, and a lake, but no helpful monuments or large welcome signs. Surely there would be some helpful bit of post with an address. There would certainly be a water-closet where he could make a surreptitious phone call.

On the bedside table, there was a phone peacefully charging. The other man looked deeply asleep and it wouldn’t be any trouble at all to sneak out. Aziraphale wasn’t a stranger to the art of espionage. Why all that business in 1941 had gone very well right up until the moment his contacts had turned out to be Nazi agents too. But if you ignored that then he’d been a very effective agent, thank you very much.

It was tricky lowering the bed’s guard rails with one hand, but he found the trick of it and folded them away. The sleeping blond didn’t even stir and Aziraphale wished him a sleep of Crowley-like proportions. He pulled back the blanket and put his feet on the floor. The legs that had replaced his soft ones were hard and strong.

There were two doors in this room. One was slightly ajar and through the gap, Aziraphale could see white tiles. The other was closed and that would lead elsewhere. The bathroom first then where he could call Crowley.

He got up, took a step… and immediately failed to account for this different body, tried to catch himself with an arm that wasn’t there and fell to the ground.

***

Bucky hit the ground with a startled grunt. Immediately he swung his head to the left, but there was no blood seeping through the bandages, no pain apart from the initial jarring.

“You okay?”

Steve was performing the slightly undignified scramble off the air mattress, getting to his feet.

“I’m okay,” said Bucky. He glanced up at his bed. He’d put the guard down, saving himself from smashing his skull against it and inflicting more brain damage on himself. Didn’t remember doing it. Sleepwalking? He didn’t have a history of it, unlike disassociation. After he’d come back from the Asset state, he always remembered though. While all those thoughts ran through his head, he let Steve help him up and fuss over him.

“You’re not bleeding,” said Steve finally, drawing back a little. His hair was stuck up at odd angles. Not even super-soldier serum protected against bed head. “You’re okay.”

“My centre of gravity changed.” Bucky had barely noticed the weight of the metal arm since he’d gotten back to his fighting weight. Now that it was gone, he noticed its absence. “I’ll learn to compensate.”

To prove it, he got to his feet, his body expecting the heavy arm to drag him over to the left. Bucky straightened up slowly.

“See?” he said, watching Steve’s hands hovering to catch him. “All good.”

Steve let out a breath that he’d been holding.

“You got no pain?” Bucky shook his head. “Good.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, partly taming it. “How about some breakfast?”

“Sure. I’m going to clean up. By myself,” he added. He loved the man and he’d helped Steve to the bathroom more times than he could count back in the old days. But he’d piss by himself now, thank you.

“Take your phone with you,” said Steve, with a nod to his bedside table.

“Okay, Ma.”

That made Steve laugh. Casual touch therapy had been put on hold while Bucky dealt with two heavy burdens - his arm and what had happened to him. But seeing Steve laugh made him miss it.

“Tonight,” said Bucky, a word that needed two hands to say in sign language, “let’s go back across the hall.”

“I don’t mind it on the floor.”

“You never do.”

“If you’re sure.” Which meant “are you going to wake up screaming because a body close to you reminds you of Rumlow?”.

“I’m sure.” Bucky took a careful step closer to Steve, taking hold of his arm for balance as he pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was fine. Kissing was good. In the same bed, he could just open his eyes and check on Steve without hauling himself up. “Sleep in a real bed.”

“Okay, okay.” Steve grinned at him. “We’ll move tonight.”

Bucky picked up his phone and carefully crossed the short distance without any more pratfalls. Which meant Steve could leave the room, happy that Bucky wasn’t about to brain himself. With that in mind, Bucky left the door unlocked too. Why get Steve covered in splinters before the day began?

He concluded his business with only a slightly awkward amount of wriggling to get his pants off and on. He’d shower before breakfast but maybe try shaving first. Tolerating blades in someone else’s hand near his face was a step too far at the moment. He looked over at the mirror expecting to see overgrown scruff and a half-collapsed hair bun. But instead there was a stranger there. Bucky whirled around, even though there was no space for another person behind him. He wobbled and caught himself on the sink with his one hand. Carefully, he let go and brought his fingertips to his face. They met thick stubble as expected, the familiar angles of his face. No plump bare cheeks, no short curls on the top of his head.

He didn’t need to add delusions to the list of things wrong with him. Especially now, down one arm and still healing. Hadn’t he and Steve had enough? He covered his eyes with his one hand. He’d turn and look at the mirror again. What he’d see would be the same face that he was used to. His face. All he had to do was turn.

“I’m awfully sorry,” said a plummy British voice. It came from Bucky’s throat, shaped words with Bucky’s mouth. “But I was wondering if I could have a word.”

***

Angels and demons - who were from the same stock after all - had a couple more senses than humans. When James Barnes had broken into Aziraphale’s shop, dressed for war, but nowhere near ready to fight one, it had been easy to see the shape of his mind. Patchwork, scabbed-over, half-healed of its profound damage. Now it looked much healthier. Aziraphale had the best position to judge. 

Seeing James panic from the inside was an experience and one that didn’t translate well to English. It was sort of like being in a ship on stormy seas or stuck in a revolving door. And he felt every quake and tremble. As the last rush of chemical and hormones left the body, he carefully took James’ hand out of his mouth and said,

“I imagine this was quite a shock.”

There were crescent-shaped marks on the back of James’ hand when he’d bitten down and muffled his cries. Aziraphale let him have control back, feeling the teeth snap shut, the cool tiles underneath their legs.

“What is this?” he gasped out finally. “What the fuck?”

“Oh, of course, you don’t remember me. Not properly anyway.” A long shiver went down James’ back and he hauled himself to his feet, one hand on the rim of the sink. In the mirror, Aziraphale saw James’ face looking back. That was better than before too, less gaunt, less haunted. “It was in London. Like a lovely dream.”

“I killed you,” he said in a tiny voice.

“Well that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale injecting a little cheer into his voice. “I just need your help, James, well I suh-”

His voice slurred as James moved his own jaw, his own tongue.

“Bucky,” he growled, “My name is Bucky.”

Americans and their nom de guerre. They did use it sometimes in the news, Bucky Barnes, James Barnes, the Winter Soldier, _formerly_ the Winter Soldier.

“Bucky,” he said, “I assure you I have no ill intentions towards you. It was merely that you were the closest mind that I could hide in after I lost my body.”

It was easy to know when Bucky wanted to speak. Some part of him - jaw, leg, or arm - would shake as he tried to move it and Aziraphale gave up control with good grace. He was a guest here after all.

“Lost your body?”

“It’s hard to kill us completely. Normally I would receive a body from my superiors but… I had to get to Earth as soon as possible and yours was the nearest compatible body.”

“Why me?”

“We can possess someone of a sensitive or spiritual bent.” Aziraphale stroked his chin, slightly startled at all the prickly hair under his borrowed fingers. “With a leftover echo of my Divine Forgiveness and a few… quirks of your mind, you’re just as good as a medium. And I truly would only need your body for a little while. Just to hide in until the demons that did this are gone.”

“What happens if they catch you?”

“Well, I imagine they’ll burn me up in hellfire, erasing me from existence entirely. But my dear Crowley will be taking care of everything. All you have to do is carry me around in your head for just a little while.”

Bucky groaned, curling in on himself until his forehead touched the cool porcelain of the sink.

“I don’t _like_ things like this,” he growled. “You got no idea of the shit I’ve been through. No idea. And you just… You didn’t think to ask? Or choose someone less fucked-up?”

He took several deep breaths, eight in and eight out. In his head, Aziraphale watched with inhuman senses. The walls in here were shaking. The dark, still pool rippled once.

“You said a little while.”

“A few days! And, of course, you will have full control. I’ll just be here.”

“Just watching everything I do. _Fine_ ,” he spat. “You just leave Steve out of this.”

“I don’t suppose,” asked Aziraphale, “I could also make a telephone call?”

***

“Hello?”

“Crowley, my dear, thank good- I mean, how wonderful to hear from you again.”

“Might say the same thing, angel,” said Crowley. He put down his lead pipe. Flaming swords were all very well and good, but this whole thing was teaching Crowley that you couldn’t beat a nice, heavy, blunt object. “Where are you?”

“New York! The state, not the city. I’m- Oh, how do you work this thing. I’ll show you.”

The screen of Crowley’s phone switched to video call. He wouldn’t have described what he did as spluttering - though there was a nice bit of sibilance there - but his breathing did have a bit of a funny moment when the Winter Soldier’s face looked back at him.

“You could have picked someone a little more ordinary,” he managed to get out. “Why don’t you just go and possess Captain America for a while?”

"He wasn't available. This body will do quite fine for the moment." It was weird seeing Aziraphale's expressions on a different face. The slight pout for one did not go with the Winter Soldier. "Are you quite alright, my dear?" said the angel, pout changing to a worried look, "They haven't made another attempt have they?"

"I got a couple," said Crowley, airly, watching Aziraphale/Barnes' eyes widen, "But I think they're on the move. I'd stay in for now."

"I see. Well, that shouldn't be too hard if I talk to this young man here."

"I'm going to make a few more inquiries then I'll head straight over to the States. I still have a passport somewhere, I think. And Adam."

"Adam?"

"I suppose you want a body back. Not like Upstairs is going to give you the time of day."

"I suppose you're right. You will hurry, won't you, dearest?"

"I will."

Crowley vowed to definitely bring the lead pipe with him on the plane. He'd grown very attached to the way it could crack a demon's skull with one swing.

"Go and blend in. Blend in. That means no tartan or, or other things. These people are Americans after all. Practically a different species." At least to Aziraphale who'd settled into a kind of middle-aged, middle-class English state a thousand years ago. Crowley, on the other hand, had taken many lessons from across the sea like sunglasses at night and jeans.

"I think I shall let Bucky here do most of the talking." He peered into the screen, moving closer. It had the effect of making his forehead fill the entire screen. "I do love you. You dear serpent."

"Be careful, angel. Tell him that too. That's precious cargo he has up in his head."

"I will, dearest. See you soon."

The screen went dark and Crowley picked up his pipe. There was a promising scent of brimstone on the air.


	4. Chapter 4

There had been seven of them and now there were three. Pruflas had been the first then Andras had gotten himself flattened by a bus trying to destroy the one angel on Earth. The last thing the next two had seen was a pair of golden snake’s eyes above a heavy length of lead pipe. The wisest thing to do was beat a hasty retreat and so they were sitting in together in the coach section of a budget airline. Any demon could have gotten a First-Class seat, but Caim and Oso were enjoying the petty discomforts in cattle class, most of which they were causing. Caim shed feathers from his cuffs and from under his collar and smelt like the bottom of a birdcage. Oso had a heavy animal smell and set off people’s cat allergies. Sometimes he would lick his lips with a tongue that looked just a little too broad and long.

“Check again,” said Oso after a few hours of clearing his throat and adjusting his seat.

“I checked before we left, didn’t I?” croaked Caim. He smoothed the right breast of his greasy jacket. “An’ it worked the first time.”

Oso bristled. Six rows up, a lady jammed a soggy tissue against her streaming nose as she set off on another sneezing fit.

“If Crawley gets a warning to him, he could be going back the other way on another of these things. Finding a new body even.”

“Not enough minds for that these days.” Caim made a clicking noise. “If I check again, will it shut you up?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but reached into his jacket. There hadn’t been a single bump to say there was anything in there but when his hand came out something was clinging to his wrist. It was mostly jellyfish. The rest of it was like a circuit diagram if Richard Dadd had gone in for engineering instead of art. It flowed out of Caim’s jacket, fronds and tentacles flowing across his lap and the floor. No human could see it, but they could feel it making room for itself on a higher dimension. A baby started wailing further down the plane. The engine noise became a high whine. Caim held it to his ear for a long minute.

“Says it’s the same place,” he said. “No change. See I told you. Gone to ground.”

“Should’ve got it to sniff out Crawley instead.”

“Later.” Caim tucked their third member back into his jacket. “It doesn’t matter what order they die in. Just that they die.”

***

It had been three days since Bucky had woken up with a passenger in his head. He woke up on the fourth day, weary down to his bones, alone in bed. Steve must have turned off his alarm or Bucky had been tired enough to sleep through it. The blanket that had been folded over the foot of the bed was now spread over Bucky. He hadn’t woken up when that happened either. Steve had also taken his phone and put it back on charge on the bedside table.

He did try to sleep. When Steve went to bed, Bucky went too and they exchanged goodnights over the polite gap between them. But when he closed his eyes, he was all too aware of that presence in his head, like someone looking over his shoulder 24/7. Except it was worse, because even in the depths of his time with Hydra, when he couldn’t eat, sleep, or do anything without their say-so, they couldn’t move his limbs for him. He’d be sitting down and his body would adjust its posture without consulting him. Strange expressions tried to make their way across his face. So he lay in bed spending the long hours staring up at the ceiling, watching over a sleeping Steve, and reading on his phone. And even that was full of sighing as his passenger objected to yet another ‘adventure story’.

He sat up. Logically, he knew the way his head felt heavier was psychosomatic or just plain lack of sleep, but he couldn’t help but think it was the angel in there, heavy as a stone, snuggling up to his PTSD and the Asset and the brain damage.

“One day at a time,” he muttered to - not just - himself. Just like Steve had said about the arm. His jaw moved like he was about to say something, but he clamped down, grinding his teeth together until the angel stopped trying.

In the bathroom, he splashed water onto his face with his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see a stranger’s face in the mirror. There were more than a few tasks he’d gotten good at doing one-handed and in the dark. Using the toilet with his eyes closed. Taking showers with his eyes closed. Getting dressed with his eyes closed.

Kitchen noises were coming from down the hall. Before he entered, Bucky took a deep breath, setting his face into something that wouldn’t worry Steve. He wished he could check his own face in a mirror.

“Hi, honey,” said Steve from the kitchen. He flipped a pancake expertly, putting the pan back down next to another one filled with sizzling bacon. Even the smell was enough to lighten Bucky’s mood and make his smile feel more natural.

“Hi,” he said back.

“You sleep okay?” Steve said. Maybe Bucky’s face hadn’t been natural enough because there was Steve Rogers’ worried look. No point in lying to him. Bucky answered with a shrug. “If you want to get five minutes on the couch, I won’t be offended,” said Steve. “Now personally, I think this breakfast will knock you out all by itself.”

There was a stack of pancakes already waiting on a plate. There was the bacon in one pan, scrambled eggs in another, toast under the grill, a punnet of fruit standing by. Most importantly there was a fresh pot of coffee in the machine.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Steve, as Bucky poured himself a mug. For once, he doubted Steve knew what was on his mind. “Good job the serum takes care of cholesterol, right?”

“Right,” said Bucky. The bitterness of black coffee on his tongue woke him up, pushing the grit of sleeplessness out of the way for a while. Next to him, Steve turned slabs of toast over, humming under his breath. Long, artists hands.

“Hey,” he said, getting Steve’s full attention. He knew that face better than his. “Thanks,” said Bucky, “for all this.”

“It’s the least I can do,” said Steve, matter-of-factly. “Besides, I get to eat half.”

Bucky’s face echoed Steve’s smile and he dipped his head down. In the coffee was the reflection of blond curls.

“If you’re still in pain, sweetheart,” said Steve, seeing his smile wiped away and guessing wrong, “we could talk to Medical. Get you some more pain relief.” 

The mere thought of that hospital smell made Bucky’s throat close up. Rumlow, the arm, his passenger. Adding Medical in the mix was too much. And who knows what Medical would find even if Bucky could let them close without a massive panic attack. They’d test him for sure, put him under the microscope as something new and unique. Steve had never completely understood why Bucky had been so outraged on his behalf hearing about all the blood drawn, the samples that were taken. Those feelings hadn’t left, only grown since the forties.

“A little longer,” said Bucky. “You know what the doses are like.”

“Okay.” Steve slowly put a hand out until he could brush his fingertips along Bucky’s jaw. Shaving was hard when you couldn’t see your own face and Bucky knew the hair was growing thick and dark there. Mental health wasn’t the only thing going backwards at the moment. “Just keep checking in.”

“I will.”

Bucky watched him turn back to his cooking, silently apologising for lying to his fella. Steve did not need him to start talking about angels and demons and voices in his head. Not with everything else wrong with Bucky.

“Can you help me shave later?”

“You look good with some scruff.” Steve looked over his shoulder, grinning his even, white grin, “But I like you clean-shaven too.”

“Bias,” mumbled Bucky and he wandered over to the couch as Steve laughed. There was a brittle edge to it that Bucky wasn’t too sleepy to detect. If he wanted to stop Steve from worrying or from being suspicious then he’d have to work harder. The thought of using his tradecraft on Steve was bitterer than the coffee. But it was better than being committed. Or having some poor sap try and tell Steve that Bucky should be committed and have to face his wrath because Steve had power of medical attorney over him and he wouldn’t… 

He shook himself. Steve wouldn’t. Both of them had made it clear over the years that the best place for him was with Steve. Not just as a familiar face, but also as someone strong enough to bring down the Winter Soldier if needed. He drained his mug and switched on the TV. The morning news was bright enough to hurt his eyes, all those glossy-looking presenters. His fingers, of their own accord, went for the remote, but he curled his arm around himself. And it turned out watching the show out of spite paid off.

“And one lucky family in London, England, had a shock when they were clearing out the attic. What they thought was an ordinary notebook turns out to be a sketchbook and papers owned by Captain America.”

The co-anchor grinned manically as a picture of Bucky’s sweetheart appeared in the corner as though everyone had forgotten what he looked like.

“That’s right. They believe that the notebook came into their great-grandfather’s possession in 1944 while he was seconded to the Royal Airforce.”

“After being verified, the papers will be going under the hammer at Sotheby’s. Interest in Captain America documents peaked in 2012 when he made his return during the Battle of New York and again when he shocked the nation by coming out about his relationship with best friend, Bucky Barnes. With this being the first new collection since then, interest will be high.”

“They emailed me about it last week,” said Steve, coming round with two massive trays held in either hand.

“It should be yours,” muttered Bucky, hitting mute on the remote. At least he could forget about his troubles with some good old outrage on his baby’s behalf.

“Legally they’re not. But it’s okay. It’s nothing too personal.”

On the screen, they were panning over a double-spread of pages: a can of rations; a half-crumbled church buttressing a cramped list of towns in Steve’s handwriting; Bucky and Duggan cracking up over a joke.

“It’s alright I promise,” said Steve. This time he did read Bucky’s mind correctly. “I got the real Bucky Barnes and that’s more than enough for me.”

Bucky’s chest constricted in mingled agony and joy, just like every time he was confronted with kindness on a bad day. He must’ve done something very good in a past life to have this man be his fella.

“Make some room,” continued Steve, “I got some more coming.”

Eating turned out to be a new minefield as if relearning to eat solid food hadn’t been issues enough for one lifetime. Somehow his passenger couldn’t use Bucky’s tastebuds without making faces, or curling his toes, or, God forbid, the noises. So he ate in quick, controlled bites, forcing his body to be still. And it was good, so he could almost understand. His baby put on a generous spread every mealtime so Bucky could get his strength back. Toast slathered in real butter, the fancy kind with the salt crystals in it. Yoghurt with fruit and honey. Bacon, sausage, hash browns. Pancakes with blueberries and maple syrup. He was soaking up the last of the syrup when someone knocked at the door.

“You’re still on breakfast?” said Sam as he came in.

Steve shuffled over, making room. “You want something to eat?”

“No, it’s fine.” Sam was looking serious and something about his expression made Bucky’s pancakes turn to glue in his mouth. “I’m actually here with some news about…” There it was, the slight pause and the merest glance towards Bucky. Sam had a good poker face, but the Asset had spent years looking for slight changes in emotion. Even if he wasn’t permitted to do anything to mitigate or defend himself, at least the Asset could brace himself. He swallowed his food.

“Rumlow,” Bucky said, putting his fork down with a delicate click.

“Yeah. We’ve heard something.” Sam had a tablet under his arm with an Avengers A on the back. “He sent you something through the post, but all the mail gets checked and it’s been upped since-” A glance towards the space where Bucky’s arm used to be. “-what happened. Bucky, man, you might not want to hear this. There’s a pretty heavy sexual element.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Breathe in eight. Breathe out eight. Ignore your pounding heart and churning stomach.

“I need,” he said, wanting his other hand, wanting sign language. Even now it was sometimes easier to speak with his hands. Or more accurately, sometimes it was still difficult to speak with his mouth. _Not S-A-F-E_ , he signed, spelling out what he needed two hands for, _to not know._

“Okay. But if you want me to stop talking, you just raise your hand and let me know, okay?”

Bucky nodded, avoiding the crushing weight of Steve’s concerned look.

“So he sent a picture of the two of you. Tore it out of a magazine. And he-” Another slight pause because Sam was looking at him, and Bucky just wanted the band-aid ripped off because what could be worse than what Rumlow had already done to him. “-masturbated on it. His DNA was still on the SHIELD files, so we know it’s his. Postmark’s Illinois and we’ve given law enforcement up there a head’s up, but we think that’s a bluff. Most likely he’ll be near whatever we get called out to next. I’d stay off the active duty roster for a while, Cap, and the both of you keep-”

“Excuse me,” said Bucky climbing to his feet. They were looking at him, he could feel Steve and Sam’s eyes on his back. He was careful, not letting himself bend or break, not until he reached the bathroom, gathered up his hair in his one hand, and vomited into the toilet.

***

Vomiting, though all the rage in the days of the Roman Empire, was not all it was cracked up to be. It left the same taste in the mouth as sobering up but with rather more liquid and burning and stomach pain. At least it was over quickly, one great heave before it devolved into coughing. All in all, an unpleasant experience.

Bucky spat, then flushed what had been a lovely breakfast away. He cradled his head in one clammy hand, breathing deeply in patterns again. Maybe Aziraphale could step in, but though Bucky had let the angel hide in his head for a while, he hadn’t warmed to him much. As the sleepless nights piled up, he’d become more and more short-tempered even with his beloved Steve. If Bucky had been Crowley, Aziraphale would expect a month-long nap to follow soon. If Aziraphale had been Crowley, he could have sent Bucky into a deep and restful sleep, but he’d never gotten to grip with the art of slumber. At least he could take away the taste of vomit from their shared mouth, the smallest possible miracle. It could be enough to keep Bucky sweet.

“If I may say something,” he ventured.

“No, you may not.” Bucky got to his feet, one hand on the toilet lid to steady himself. The young man was physically powerful in a way Aziraphale hadn’t needed to be since the days of full plate armour. Mentally though, that was the weak point and Aziraphale had a ringside seat.

“Why’d you have to bother me _now_ with all this shit going on?” Bucky continued. He turned, for once looking straight into the mirror. His reflected face, which Aziraphale saw in place of his own, glowered through shadowed eyes and overgrown facial hair. “And you promised me full control, quit it with the moaning at meals!”

“It was awfully good,” said Aziraphale, thinking wistfully of sushi. Surely the Americans had discovered the delights of delicate arrangements of raw fish? “But I’m sorry. At least only your beau saw it.”

“I’m going into town with Steve today,” said Bucky. “So you better keep out of it.”

“Outside?” Bucky bit down on the shocked rising tone and the angel continued in hushed tones. “But the demons-”

“And the sadistic ex-Hydra agent who’s after me. Plus anyone worried I might tattle on them hiring an assassin and grieving family and friends and hundreds more who won’t be sad to see the Winter Soldier dead. But I am going stir crazy here. And I can’t let Rumlow run my life from wherever he’s hiding.” He rubbed his eyes, blinding them both temporarily. “...We’ll be safe with Steve around. He’d never let anything happen to me. Us. Whatever.”

“He’s a good man.” And he was. Angels have more senses than humans, even superheroes. It wasn’t anything like Tadfield, but the waves of love that came off Captain America whenever Bucky was in the room was more than Aziraphale had gotten off a single human before.

“The best.” Bucky rubbed at his shoulder. Aziraphale had seen what was under the dressings, shiny plates and circles of metal that was awaiting a new arm. “Look. It’s not your fault. Not even my fucked-up brain is your fault. I’m just trying to get through all this.”

There was a knock at the door and Aziraphale, in the spirit of discretion, did not reply. Naturally, it was Steven Rogers on the other side, his presence like a deliciously hot bath. Bucky’s body unwound at the sight of him, the tense muscles uncoiling just a little bit.

“You want to lie down?” he asked, stepping aside to let Bucky slip past.

Bucky sat on the bed, feet on the floor. Steve took up his attention and maybe he could feel a little of that love.

“Sorry about your breakfast, darling,” said Bucky.

“Not your fault. I can make you some oatmeal or one of your shakes.”

“Not now,” said Bucky over his lurching stomach.

“Okay. If you still want to go out-”

“Yes.”

“Try and get some shut-eye in. Just an hour.” Steve slowly sat next to him on the bed. He’d left a polite few inches, but this shared body was hyper-aware of the warmth coming off him. “Can I kiss you?”

Bucky swallowed.

“I wouldn’t go kissing me on the mouth right now. But you can...”

He leant over slightly, closing their eyes as a feather-like kiss landed on the crown of his head. Aziraphale missed Crowley dreadfully.

“I love you, Buck. You were always the best thing that happened to me.” He smoothed a little bit of hair back behind Bucky’s ear. “I’ll make you something later. Get all this face fuzz off.”

“Thanks, honey,” said Bucky, accepting another kiss. Aziraphale’s borrowed eyes followed Steve as he stood up. “Say bye to Sam for me?”

“Sure. Get some rest.”

As soon as Steve left, the tension settled back into Bucky’s flesh and he lay down in a rigid line on the bed. Sleep was not on the agenda it seemed. Instead, he reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the book there.

“It’ll be soon, right?” he said to an empty room.

“Crowley will certainly work as fast as he can. He’s very resourceful.”

The only answer Bucky gave was a sigh and he flipped open his book. _The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone._

“I saw the last unicorn,” mused Aziraphale out loud. He waited for Bucky to snap his jaw shut again, but all Bucky did was bury himself deeper into the mattress. “Lovely creatures in their day. If only Ham had been a little quicker with the rope.”

Aziraphale resolved to ask Crowley about a good night’s sleep when possible. It was the least he could do as a guest in this body.

***

Crowley had a passport. Crowley had had three passports in his long life, the first issued by personal decree of King Artaxerxes I of Persia. His current passport was a British one filled out by hand, the pages stamped and restamped in layers of ink, Britain, France, Siam. He didn’t need a passport technically. A demon could just demonically wish their way through security checks just like Crowley had done with his first-class ticket. What Crowley didn’t have was enough demon scalps. They were on the move again and over the Atlantic Ocean if Crowley’s methods - the world map, the iron pins - were accurate. Which meant that Aziraphale had not been keeping as low a profile as Crowley had hoped. Casually sprinkling miracles around was a fact of life for angels. Aziraphale never took more than a mouthful of mediocre wine before it changed into a better one. Then again, Crowley couldn’t talk while he lounged in his first-class seat with a glass of truly excellent champagne.

The only way he could think of was the old fourteenth-century gambit. He’d done it once before, counterbalancing Aziraphale’s Divine Forgiveness with a much more practical good night’s sleep. He’d sent a little their way already. But he could trust a paranoid former-assassin to stay in. Right?

***

Bucky did feel better clean-shaved again. That and he’d surprised himself by dropping off for the last thirty minutes of his lie down, _The Last Unicorn_ spread out on his chest. That made Steve happy and made convincing him that nothing was wrong all the easier. That nothing more was wrong with him than usual. Maybe without his stowaway, he would have genuinely impressed everyone with his coping skills. But he had liked the way Steve carefully shaved him and pinned up his left sleeve. He even managed to take Steve’s hand heading out of Residential and to the car. Sam was waiting there ready.

“If you two are going to share a milkshake and gaze into each other’s eyes all afternoon, then I’m sitting somewhere else,” he said.

“We could always get three straws in that milkshake,” said Steve.

“I’ll pass. How’re you doing, Buck?”

“Good.” Steve squeezed his hand. “Thanks for coming, Sam.”

“Hey, it’s no problem. I meant it about the milkshake though.”

Bucky managed to keep his dignity and buckle himself in with some minor contortion. Sam took the back seat. The nearest town was Millwood, close enough that the bars were full of Avengers staff on a Friday night. Not that Bucky would know. No one went swing dancing any more and booze did nothing for him either. Millwood did have a decent independent coffee shop and the bookshop ran by Mr Jankowski, an elderly Polish gentleman who inexplicably preferred Stanislaw Lem to the Strugatsky Brothers. New Bucky lived a quieter life than the old, pre-war, pre-Hydra one, but it was an open life.

Trees gave way to houses, gave way to Main Street. Businesses had signs of support all around the place. A lot of them were shields, which made sense since they could still see the city from here, but there were also Iron Man helmets, hammers, and even a couple of red stars. What was it Sam had said? He had people here who loved him.

They loved Steve more though, that was for sure. Steve only had to come round to Bucky’s door - letting him out like a gentleman - for someone to yell “Captain!” at him from across the street. Probably only Bucky and Sam noticed how Steve moved slightly to protect Bucky before he saw there was no threat and waved instead. He was a popular guy. People like to yell things at him, things that were happy and joyful. Bucky could relax.

“Where’d you want to go first?” said Steve. He was on Bucky’s right, Sam on Bucky’s left. The sidewalks were quiet enough at this time of day on a weekend to let them walk three abreast. “I know Mr Jankowski has the book you ordered.”

“Yeah,” he said. He almost put his hand back into Steve’s left. But ahead there were tourists, here for the leaves and a glimpse at superheroes while still being in sight range of the city. When Bucky first started leaving the Compound it seemed like he couldn’t go a day without someone snapping a photo of him looking tangled-haired and hollowed-eyed. At least he’d put on enough weight by then so he didn’t look like a skeleton.

“Don’t worry,” said Steve, a solid wall on the one side, “they haven’t seen us yet. Let’s cross the road.”

That meant Bucky could turn to the left and hide the empty sleeve, his long hair in his hood. Crossing the road here meant that they only had to get past ten more shopfronts to Mr Jankowski’s. He’d gotten out of practice being outside with non-Avengers. Though until Rumlow was found…

His fist curled of his own accord. A sharp smell invaded his nostrils, making his stomach clench, and his brain start to light up with flight-or-fight alerts. Chills ran up his back.

“Jesus,” said Sam, turning to the both of them. “It smells like my Aunt’s basement over here.”

Something was _wrong_ and there were too many eyeballs around for Bucky’s stupid mouth to work. He reached out to do the flick over his heart that meant _Steve_ and it was then that someone grabbed him, five sharp little circles of pain on his upper arm.

***

Again, the language of possession didn’t translate well into any human language. If Aziraphale had to describe what it looked like being in Bucky’s mind when the demon grabbed him to a human, he’d say it was like the still dark pool suddenly rose, drowning Bucky and making Aziraphale struggle as he rose too. Meanwhile, Bucky’s body, uncontrolled by either of them, started to take a swing. The angel clawed his way through the mire into the driving seat, moving at the speed of an angel. The world outside seemed like it was moving through treacle, Bucky’s fist like a glacier. He’d just gotten control again when their shared body was yanked off its feet. Instantly, that other personality broke through and tried to fight back, but it tried to balance on an arm that wasn’t there. Bucky’s body hit the pavement and Aziraphale wriggled back into control. Pressed against him was a very warm and firm body, and, remembering Crowley’s advice, he opted to go still and limp.

“It’s okay, baby,” said Steve Rogers, who was the warm, firm presence. He cautiously loosened his grip, moving back from Bucky a little. There was a graze on his hand. All around them, a rank feline smell clung to the air.

Sam Wilson appeared out a narrow alley, frowning.

“Lost him somehow. I’m sorry, Bucky. You okay?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly and that seemed to satisfy him.

“Sam,” said Steve, “can you get the car, please? I think we’ll have to cut this trip short.”

“Sure thing.” He took the car keys off Steve and headed off down the road.

“Come on and sit up for me, okay?” He did have a lovely soothing voice and Aziraphale hoped Bucky could hear it. “There any pain in your socket at all? I tried to soften it as much as possible, but we landed pretty hard there.”

Aziraphale’s borrowed fingers twitched once violently. He gave up control, getting shoved back into the back of Bucky’s brain.

***

Bucky took a huge whooping gasp of air, his back trembling with it, his chest being squeezed by iron bands of panic. He bent nearly double - trying to make a smaller target - trying to hide because his hearing was so good, he could hear people talking.

“Honey, it’s okay.” _Steve_. “No one’s going to touch you if you don’t want to. Here. Have my jacket.”

Oh, fuck, they hadn’t had to do the jacket thing in years. Steve spread the heavy leather over his head, carefully, and it was okay, it wasn’t the mask or the chair’s halo, it was a dark, nice-smelling space hiding his face from people and goddamn phones.

“No one’s going to blame you for taking a swing, Buck,” said Steve - focus on Steve - from somewhere above him. “He had no excuse to grab you. C’mon, here’s the car.”

Bucky didn’t need help throwing himself into the back seat. He hunched down as low as possible, deep in the folds of Steve’s jacket and he didn’t sit up until Sam pulled away. Steve had the other back seat, twisted round to look at Bucky.  
“We’re going to be at the Compound soon,” he said, “You hurting at all?”

His left side, the socket and the new plates felt fine. It was the right that hurt. His knuckles were bleeding and he couldn’t remember why and he could still feel the pressure of fingers on his upper arm. There would be bruises. Fingertip bruises which Bucky could close his eyes and so easily see repeated on his thighs and hips and wherever anyone else wanted to grab him. His skin was crawling. Bucky felt together enough to sign _no change_ at Steve. Change, of course, spelt out because the sign needed two hands. His right bicep still burnt and _hurt_ , _pain_ and _injured_ all needed two hands. Spell out _H-U-R-T_ and nod to the injury instead.

“Want me to check it when we get home?” Lots of questions to remind Bucky who was in control here.

“Do you think it was-” said Sam before he cut himself off, probably thinking better of mentioning Rumlow while Bucky was in this state. Bucky couldn’t get the words in a line to say that it hadn’t been Rumlow, but something just as bad, something with cat-like eyes and a flash of yellowed fangs. His head felt like someone had laid a hot wire from the back of his left eye and under his skull. Above them were the trees where anyone could be hiding and Bucky watched, afraid to even blink.

***

As soon as they got home, Bucky had gone straight to the window seat to hide among the houseplants. Steve went into Bucky’s closet, brought him one of the self-soothing parcels that he kept there, and then retreated. Bucky didn’t want close comfort when he was like this. Being on the other side of the room was best, where Bucky could check up on him and vice-versa. He switched on the Food Network for background noise and listened to Bucky rustling papers and talking to himself.

After an hour or so, Bucky deposited himself down on the couch a healthy distance away from Steve. He’d wrapped himself up in one of his blankets and looked half-dead on his feet. There had been five neat little bruises on the back of Bucky’s arm.

“Hey, Bucky.”

“Hi.”

“How’re you feeling?”

Bucky dug himself deeper into the folds, rubbing his cheek against the soft fleece. Soft things were helpful. Soft and comfortable had not been a big part of Bucky’s time with Hydra.

“Thank you,” he said. His one hand appeared, spelt out _stop_ and then prodded himself in the chest which meant _me_.

"Sorry for the hard landing, honey, I tried to soften it as much as I could."

Steve had caught the hand clutched at Bucky's arm out of the corner of his eye and had already been moving when Bucky started to swing. Bucky was not a violent person by nature - just by the dubious nurturing of torture and brain-washing - but when panicked like that, all bets were off. As much as he disliked that man for touching Bucky and triggering his touch issues, he didn’t want him dead.

He noticed that Bucky had avoided answering the question of how he was, but he didn’t want to push him. Not after today.

“I don’t think you should go into town, Bucky, not for a while.”

Bucky’s jaw moved. His hand vanished again.

“Can we see how tomorrow goes?” he said finally. Getting a whole sentence out of him in this state was pretty good.

“Okay. We’ll see.” He didn’t touch Bucky, but he did stroke a trailing edge of his blanket. “I can go with you too. I don’t mind.”

Bucky dug in again, lapsing into silence. On the TV, chocolate ganache was poured over a cake, the beautiful mirrored surface picking up some of the stage lighting.

“Okay,” he said finally. 

“Whatever you want, Bucky.” Steve extended his hand, thumb, index and little finger out, the others folded down. ASL for _I love you_. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Bucky looked at the sign and then mirrored it with his own hand. He looked so tired.

“How about you get some sleep? I can get your pillow.”

“Thanks, Steve,” said Bucky. He started the long process of untangling himself and lying down. Steve went to fetch his pillow. In the living room, someone on the Food Network started talking in the plummiest British accent, but it was all American ones by the time he came back.

Bucky was visible as a pale strip of skin topped by dark hair. Steve hoped he felt safer wrapped up like that. Something shifted under the blankets and his one hand appeared, making an open-close motion like a mouth.

“Okay. Just close your eyes.” Steve sat crossed-legged on the floor at a polite distance. Behind him, the TV whispered. “So when I saw us on TV this morning-” Just before Sam brought more news of Rumlow, but Bucky didn’t stir. “-I thought about what I would like back. I have the compass with your hair. I still remember the amount of shit you gave me for that, by the way.” Bucky’s eyes crinkled just a fraction. “And I’ve got some of the old sketches and our V-Mail, but there’s still some stuff missing. There’s a book you had, one of the sideways ones they gave out, and one day when you were feeling down I took it and I drew this big picture of your face on the inside cover. Property of Bucky Barnes written in big old letters. You pretended to be mad, but I kept stealing it to draw things and you’d… You always looked happy when you saw a new sketch. I wonder where it…”

Bucky was asleep. His chest went in and out, slowly and regularly and peacefully in a way that Steve hadn’t seen in a while. The door was locked. Dozens of security cameras were watching the outside. Avengers were going about their business, all briefed on Rumlow’s latest activities. But Steve was still worried. It only took one moment. He’d learnt that on the train.

Carefully, he straightened Bucky’s blanket. He wasn’t ready for their second chance to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever look at your work and think 'I hate this plotline' and then redo it all? This girl did! Hopefully, after a lot of chopping and changing, we'll now be back to a more regular schedule. Sorry for the wait!


	5. Chapter 5

When on Earth and not actively tempting, demons tended to seek out places that reminded them of home. In Milltown, the most Downstairs-like areas were the secluded corners where the ground was covered in broken liquor bottles, used needles, burnt tin foil. Despair like that was ambrosia for demons and it was here Caim and Oso had gone to ground.

“Why’d you let him go?” said Caim, regarding his companion through his beady black eyes.

“I didn’t know he’d be with people.” Oso licked a droplet of green ichor off the back of his hairy hand. “Why’d a human have to be so fast? Nearly got me.”

“You could’ve just eaten him.” Caim shook himself all over, shedding greasy black feathers onto the ground.

“Least we got confirmation. I’m going to eat the dark one’s _face_. Eat the eyes of the blond. Blue tastes the best.”

“You ain’t taking all the best bits! Split the blue eyes, one each.” Caim grew thoughtful, burying himself deeper into his jacket. “What we need is people too. Demon Crowley had a whole army, I hear.”

“I can sniff out someone. Meantime,” Oso turned in the direction the angel had fled in, “there’s something still in the old ways.”

***

That night at the Avengers Compound, people dreamed troubled dreams. The whisper of ballet shoes hiding the cries of human pain. A half-crumbled apartment room choked with dust. Falling through a too-bright desert sky. Bucky, on the other hand, dreamt peacefully. Aziraphale made sure of it.

Demons had their ways and really only Crowley had gotten acquainted with modern things like mobile phones. Dreams were a common angle of attack. The old stand-by. He could protect Bucky, but the other heroes were on their own. These were extraordinary people, he had to hope that they were less susceptible to bad dreams. He could feel them, on a level that only a few humans were dimly aware of, like malignant ticks eating a person’s peace of mind and excreting anxiety and dark thoughts.

He let Bucky’s body lie down and sleep along with his mind. The bruises on their shared arm faded more and more with every passing hour.

***

Bucky dreamt.

He was in the passenger seat of Steve’s car. He’d pulled his hood up and worn sunglasses. His NG tube had been removed, the tape leaving faint red marks on his face. But, as Steve said, who peered into car windows? This was New York after all.

Steve had helped him box up all his stuff, clothes and books mostly. Seeing it all in the back seat like that gave Bucky an odd, satisfied feeling. Owning things and having a permanent place to put them was still new. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket. He had saved the pictures of the Compound that Steve had sent him and it looked nice. Lots of grass and trees and water like living in a park. He’d done that once before, covering himself up with layers of clothes and newspapers, but this was different. Now there were rooms just for him and Steve.

The door on the driver’s side opened and Steve got in wearing his anonymous outfit of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Someone should have given him a better understanding of tradecraft. He could cover his golden hair and his pretty blue eyes, but the way he moved made him stick out like a sore thumb. Or maybe, he realised, that was because Bucky was Bucky and Steve was Steve. Maybe it was only Bucky who’d recognised that walk, the way Steve had of holding himself like he was ready to move in at all times. And he would. If Bucky was in trouble, he would put himself in front of him, even against one of his friends.

“Hey, honey,” said Steve, smiling across at him. “You ready to go?”

Bucky plucked at his seatbelt and patted the book ready in his lap. Sam had given it to him, a big omnibus of something called Earthsea. On the cover, dragons looked down at a tiny sailing boat. Steve eyed up the thousand-page doorstopper.

“Well if we hit traffic I think you’ll be good.” Steve tipped his head at the two massive boxes marked ‘BOOKS’. “Cross your fingers we don’t have to break into those too.”

Steve winked at him and Bucky smiled back automatically. Somehow this was different too, his memories pale in comparison to the real thing.

“Okay. You need to stop for anything just let me know.”

Bucky gave him a thumbs up. In sign language, in ASL, he could say _okay_ by using the signs for ‘O’ and ‘K’. But he was keeping a lid on that. Sign language was amazing, the way he could use his hands and make people understand him. When he told Steve he wanted to dazzle him, wanted to impress him. That wasn’t different. One way or another, Bucky Barnes had always been trying to impress Steve Rogers.

When they left the Tower’s underground parking, Bucky craned his neck, bidding a silent goodbye to the building that had sheltered him and sustained him. Ahead of them, past the traffic and the suburbs, was their new home, a place built just for him and Steve.

Bucky dreamt of watching the world slip by on the other side of the window, listening to Steve humming along to the radio.

***

Steve dreamt too.

It was a good one, though not one he’d tell Bucky about. He knew it was normal, hell, he’d been in the Army sharing a dorm with two dozen men. Just in case though, he’d brought it up to his therapist about six months after Bucky came back, his ears burning red. It was normal to have sex dreams, reassured his therapist, and very normal to have them about his sweetheart. But Steve felt a little guilty still. Bucky wasn’t in a place where he could have sex yet. Not that Steve minded. Steve would live like a monk for the rest of his days if it meant having Bucky. He just worried that it made Bucky feel bad. They slept in the same bed these days and Bucky used to be a sharpshooter by profession. He’d had to have noticed that sometimes Steve woke up with an erection, just like Steve noticed that Bucky didn’t.

But he was dreaming and Bucky was lying under him, legs wrapped around his waist. Bucky was missing his arm in this one, the new metal of the empty socket cool under Steve’s hand, his mouth soft and warm when they kissed.

Bucky was getting impatient, wriggling up to meet Steve’s thrusts. It was always funny how Bucky could wait all day for a date, or dancing, or enemy convoys, but sometimes get like this in bed. When it had been a while. Bucky’s hand scratched hot lines across Steve’s back and he hissed. In return, he squeezed the wonderful weight of Bucky’s thigh, pulling him closer, thrusting deeper into him, finding his mouth again. Bucky’s hand was over his heart, he was playfully nipping at his lip and Steve bit him back. All it needed to make it perfect was his face, grey eyes dark and flirty and his hair all tousled. Steve sat back.

There was red blood on Bucky’s mouth and a matching coppery taste in Steve’s. His hand was over Steve’s heart, weakly trying to shove him off. No flirty look in his eyes, only an awful blank terror.

***

Steve jolted awake, his lungs swelling like a scream was building up behind his mouth. He let it out in one shuddering breath. Cold sweat beaded his back and forehead. He was painfully, shamefully hard between his legs.

The sofa was empty. Bucky’s blanket was thrown back and his pillow was still there and dread crept up Steve’s throat. It was only a dream. Bucky wasn’t bleeding from bitten lips, he didn’t have bruises on his thighs that would match Steve’s hands. It was only a dream. Steve’s hands were digging into the arms of the armchair. He’d fallen asleep here watching over Bucky, spare blanket ready in case his sweetheart got cold. He would never-

A door closed quietly down the hall and seconds later, Bucky came into view. Unbitten lips, unbruised face, no sign of violence perpetrated by Hydra or Steve, except for the empty sleeve. But for a second, his expression was that of a total stranger. Just a second of a foreign set to his mouth and eyes before he blinked and he was undeniably Bucky Barnes again.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nothing.” Bucky gave him the familiar studied look, but Steve’s blanket was rucked around his waist, hiding the evidence. And Bucky was safe. Safe, safe. “Just a bad dream.”

Bucky’s hand briefly flitted out then retreated just as quickly. No touching yet, but it was okay, Steve would wait, he’d never-

“It’s okay, it was just a dream,” he said half to himself. It was okay. And once he got a moment, he could take care of himself and then focus on Bucky as he should. As soon as Bucky turned to the coffee machine he stood up - neck stiff like other pieces of his anatomy - blanket held protectively in front of him and gathered up Bucky’s bedding too.

“I’m grabbing a shower, then we’ll have breakfast, okay?”

Bucky was staring down into his coffee with another strange look on his face then it was him again. It must have been what happened yesterday - that homeless man who’d grabbed him like that. God, if that had been one of Rumlow’s-

“ _Steve_ ,” said Bucky, snapped Steve out of it.

“Sorry, Buck. Is that a yes for breakfast?”

“Sure.” He put his head to one side, giving him a very searching look. That one was entirely Bucky Barnes.

“I won’t be long.” His erection throbbed and looking at Bucky didn’t help. Rising guilt wasn’t slowing it down any. “Your choice of breakfast, so start planning.”

He kept his mind on walking normally until he got to their shared room. Then he dumped all the bedding on the bed and stripped as he went, leaving a trail of clothes all the way to the shower. He leant back against the tiles, water warming up, steam clouding the glass shower door. Just a couple of minutes and he could go back to Bucky.

But all he could see was the pale shape of Bucky’s frightened face, blood on his lips, his thighs trapped open by Steve’s hands. And that had gotten Steve excited. Steve reached out and set the water to cold. It would take more than one shower to feel clean, but one was a start.

***

Jet lag wasn’t a problem for a demon, but even demons couldn’t escape the general crankiness that resulted from being crammed into a metal tube and being sent round the world twice. What kind of Anti-Christ took off-the-grid holidays in Bali? Well, the kind that didn’t bring about the end of the world, which Crowley was thankful for every day, but it was very inconvenient. He muttered to himself, passing security by waving his passport absently, and headed down to the car rental. Since he was a demon, and one who had seen his fair share of American cinema in the 50s and 60s, the car waiting for him was a pristine 1952 Cadillac Eldorado in black. Its presence here meant there was a conspicuous gap in the classic car collection of a New York tech billionaire, but Crowley wasn’t concerned with that. He pulled his phone out of his jacket and called Aziraphale. It went through to voicemail twice before Aziraphale called him back.

“Hello, my dear,” came that familiar voice, “I’m afraid I must be quick.”

“I’ve landed.”

"Oh thank goodness. How was your flight?" asked Aziraphale, politeness immediately winning out over expediency.

"Not the point, angel. How soon can you get yourselves out of the Compound?”

"Well. That may be a problem."

"How so?"

"They found us."

A demon was not necessarily a creature of fire and sulphurous matter. Downstairs often went for dingy, cramped dankness over the lakes of lava. Crowley could certainly feel a chill running down the back of his spine.

“One of them tried to grab us when we were out with-”

“I told you-”

“I know! But Bucky wanted to go out and I thought we’d be safe. We had Captain America and Sam Wilson with us. And we were safe. Just bruises.”

“Just them knowing who you’re hiding in.”

“I am sorry.”

The words hung in the air.

“I know,” said Crowley. “And at least we know where they are.”

“It was someone who smelt like the bottom of a cat cage,” said Aziraphale, possibly unaware of the sheer range of bad smells that Below could produce. Crowley had done quite well out of the invention of Lynx bodyspray though the idea that it could replace a shower was purely down to teenage boys everywhere.

“How soon can you meet me?” asked Crowley. This didn’t get nearly as much of a joyous response as he’d like.

“That’s quite… complicated at the moment.” Aziraphale paused. “I really must tell him, you know.”

Someone on the line sighed deeply and not Aziraphale. That would be Bucky Barnes unless the angel had been daft enough to spill everything to Captain America and gotten himself sectioned.

"You see, this body here, Bucky had rather an adverse reaction to it."

"To the demon?"

"To touch. I wish I could show you what it's like in here. Goodness, it's an awful churning mess in here."

“I can get out,” said an American and deeply tired voice, “if you can be outside the Compound at two.”

“That is I can’t persuade you to jet off to Alpha Centauri.”

“Alas,” said the angel, “he’s quite set on staying with his paramour.”

"No one says paramour any more. And I can’t fit Captain America back here so don’t think of bringing him."

“He’s got a security briefing,” Barnes again. “Just get me back before it’s over.”

There was a noise on the end of the line that sounded just like two people wrestling for control of the same mouth. It was off-putting.

"You're making me mess with Steve,” said Barnes again. Every one of his words seemed to come at a tremendous effort. Seemed like one good night’s sleep hadn’t been enough. “When is your friend getting here?”

“Soon,” said Crowley. “He’s on holiday.”

“ _Holiday_?” shrieked Aziraphale. “Why I-” He suddenly paused and Crowley heard noises in the background. “We have to go,” he said, much quieter now, “but we’ll meet at two?”

“I’ll see you then, angel.”

Crowley put his phone down, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Off in the distance, a plane rose into the clear blue sky, turning east towards home.

He needed to find a church.

***

Bucky had spent the day with one eye on the clock, while he watched TV with Steve, skimmed through his reading and pretended to fix up his memory box. At half past one, Steve sighed.

“Guess it’s time to go.”

Steve smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He’d been acting strangely since waking up yesterday. Looking at Bucky with big, sad eyes when he thought Bucky couldn’t see him. Being a little too solicitous. Staring at his sketchbook without putting pencil to paper. Treating Bucky like he was made of glass. It couldn’t have been just the panic attack. They were old hands at this now.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck,

“I could skip today. Sam’ll catch me up.”

Bucky shook his head.

“You need to go.” Bucky didn’t say that Steve knew Rumlow, that he’d once considered Rumlow a friend, a comrade. Retroactive guilt wasn’t going to lift Steve’s weird mood.

“And you’ll be okay?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Bucky, a little annoyance slipping out into his tone. “I’ll be fine,” he said, trying not to look at the guilt/sadness/whatever was going on in Steve’s eyes. For once, Bucky couldn’t tell.

“Having all the fun here with your books.”

“Maybe a walk later. Round the grounds or something.”

Laying down the groundwork for later. Bucky didn’t want to lie to Steve, but he also didn’t want Steve to come home to an unexpectedly empty apartment. Not now. That unexplained expression was on his face, like guilt. What did Steve have to be guilty about? He couldn’t predict that someone would grab him like that. His arm twinged with the memory of it.

“If you need me…”

Bucky waved his phone and it seemed to mollify Steve. The clock was ticking round to two o’clock and he hovered as Steve pulled on his jacket. If it had been any other time, it would have been funny that he was so eager for Steve to go. He’d spent most of his life with Steve Rogers on his mind, even if he couldn’t remember who Steve was. As Steve paused in the doorway, he almost screamed.

“I love you, Buck,” said Steve and those words made a fine needle of guilt that stuck Bucky right in the heart. “I just… I know this is a hard time, but we can get through it. I think I just needed to say that out loud today.”

Bucky extended his hand in that old, familiar symbol. Thumb, index and little finger extended, _I love you_ in ASL. He’d memorised that one soon after he’d started to learn. It always made Steve smile.

“You can make fun of me later if you want,” he said with a self-effacing grin and a shadow behind his eyes. “See you later.”

Bucky waved him off and as soon as the door closed behind him, went to their room. Rumlow was still an active threat and Bucky wasn’t going to go out there in sweats and slippers. Not that he had done much last time, dressed in full combat gear and carrying a weapon. He shivered at the ghost of Rumlow’s breath on his face, his erection on-

“Need help,” he said to the empty room, forcing words out of his mouth, “with this. The clothes.”

“Certainly.” And just like that, Bucky’s feet were in neatly-laced up boots, fatigues buttoned up. “They’re not quite to my taste, but they seem quite practical.”

Bucky shushed him and stuffed his phone into his pocket. The empty sleeve Steve had pinned up for him would have to stay like that. It made him more noticeable but so would the sleeve flapping around.

The corridor outside was empty and Bucky kept his walk casual as he headed for the stairs. Everyone was at the security briefing but there were still the cameras outside and the ever-present FRIDAY. At the door, he caught a glimpse of Steve in the distance. His walk was different, his shoulders a little slumped. Maybe all his odd behaviour could be explained by burn-out. Bucky wasn’t making it easy on the guy. Later, he’d ask Sam to give Steve another lecture on the subject. Later.

Instead of taking the same path as Steve, Bucky took a right, hugging the wall of Residential. The scenic route, the one that Steve had wheeled him around on, had been cleared of trees on either side of the fence for security reasons. Only one solitary oak tree, hundreds of years old, was left close by. An ordinary man couldn’t make the ten-feet jump over the fence and the sensors, but Bucky could. It was much easier with two arms. With two arms, he could’ve scrambled up the tree in seconds. Still, he could sometimes love this body which could casually make jumps like that and move through woodland almost silently. Even as mentally tired as he was. Sleep had helped a little.

He passed through the last of the trees to the road and there was a sleek soft-top car parked there, the pristine black paint gleaming in the autumn sunlight. Unlike Steve, he’d been around for the 1950s look. Once he’d shot someone through the windscreen of a car like this and he couldn’t recall their face or why Hydra had wanted him dead but the screaming red paint job had stuck.

“Crowley, my dearest.” Aziraphale sent them straight across the road without looking and leant across to peer inside the car. “Oh, you don’t know how good it is to see you again.”

Crowley reached out his hand and Bucky jerked backwards. It was a neat, ordinary hand, but it was attached to a stranger. He hadn’t even let Steve touch him yet.

“Not yet,” said Aziraphale. He climbed in, settling himself down in the passenger seat. “We just have to wait a little longer.”

“Not like we didn’t wait long enough before, angel.” He grinned with white, even and strangely sharp teeth. “Good to see you too.” He held out a thermos, a sleek and expensive looking one in black.

“Oh no, not the holy water again.”

“Worked the first time.”

“Once!”

“Well, this time I’ve got you here to fling holy water about.” He brought the engine to life with a roar - Bucky noticed he didn’t use a key - and peeled away from the kerb, quickly and on the wrong side of the road. “Hey, Barnes, you’ve got good aim.”

Bucky didn’t have to have it spelt out for him. Demons, holy water, the connection was obvious. As for his aim…

“Yes,” he grunted, trying not to think of all those faces.

“Good splash should do it. Course we could shoot them but I like taking them out of existence entirely. Then all we have to do is wait for Adam.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale and Bucky closed his mouth gently. He didn’t feel like dragging out Rumlow and the whole story again. Sometimes there was noise about prosecution for all the things done to Bucky, but the thought of describing them to a courtroom made him sick to his stomach.

“Let’s do this,” he said instead, curling his fingers around the thermos, putting his head against the cool window. In the distance, grey clouds were starting to gather.

***

Lot of places looked the same once the heavy industry moved out. Empty warehouses and broken windows, weeds growing up the asphalt, junkie shit on the ground everywhere. Even Milltown - the place with the big shiny sign saying ‘Home of the Avengers’ - had areas where Stark’s money hadn’t filtered down yet. Worked fine enough for Rumlow’s purposes.

He lounged back in his chair, staring up at the warehouse rafters. He was close. The Avengers had built their playground just fifteen miles outside of town, making themselves all tight and cosy up there surrounded by fences and sensors and high-tech toys. But, of course, he was already up there, in their heads. In Barnes’ head. Occupying some prime real estate. If only Wilson hadn’t interrupted, he could’ve had Barnes’ head in his hands. Maybe he could’ve made a little time for something like the old days. Before Cap and his little pals dropped a building on his face, he could go to a bar and get his rocks off nine times out of ten, but now he’d take that half-an-hour between debriefing and mind-wiping. Bucky Barnes probably hadn’t had a real man in years. Served him right for being a shit lay.

Something crashed further down the line and Rumlow sat back up.

“Fucking watch what you’re doing!”

Jones, the fucking idiot, was scrambling to his feet, clutching a box to his chest. Rumlow rocked himself to his feet, dragging his rifle up with him. As he stalked forward, he caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye in the waiting metal casings. Yeah, he’d make it slow as he could for Cap.

“You want us to go up, Jones, is that it? Leave us a smoking crater on the ground?”

He grabbed the box out of Jones’ hands and laid it carefully on the table. Jones, the stupid fuck, didn’t see the hit coming and sprawled out onto the floor. Rumlow casually put a boot on his neck.

“I don’t know about you,” he said while Jones wheezed under his boot, “but I ain’t leaving this world unless I take Captain America with me.” He put more and more weight down, watching Jones’ hands scrabble at his boot. No one moved to help, no one moved a muscle. Rumlow grinned.

“I like your style,” said a voice and Rumlow turned, bringing up his gun. Two men were standing side-by-side, lurking in the shadows. Rumlow’s first thought was ‘homeless’ and they looked the part in dirty, mismatched clothes that looked like they’d been left over from a charity drive. But there was something there, in the eyes, that made Rumlow think of the weirder shit he’d seen in his time with SHIELD.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said, taking his foot off Jones. He ignored the coughing and wheezing, not even giving Jones a parting kick in the ribs.

“Friends,” said one, grinning with a mouthful of fangs.

“People who want what you do,” said the other.

“Oso.”

“Caim. Here to help.”

“You want a piece of Cap.”

“No,” said Caim.

Oso put out a hand. His fingernails were long and black with dirt. The air started to waver above his palm with heat. With a burst of sulphuric air, fire spread across the lines of his palm, the ends of his fingers. It burnt with a weird pale light and what it lit up in his eyes was nothing Rumlow had ever seen before.

“We’re wanting the man with him. Long hair. One arm.”

“Bucky Barnes.”

Captain America’s sweetheart, the media called him. A puppet with broken strings, a weapon with pretensions to being a real person.

“Got an angel in his head. Hiding. Sniffer says so.”

“We want _him_. Take him out of Bucky Barnes’ head and burn him up.”

Rumlow ran his tongue across his mangled lips. Fire had turned them to scar tissue, melted his ear to the side of his head.

“Guess you’re from the other place, am I right? So you’re probably some master torturer.” He swaggered forward in the way that he used to disguise his half-crippled legs. “Then tell me. What would hurt most: capping Rogers first or Barnes?”

Oso rumbled like a garbage disposal, which Rumlow took for laughter.

“One of them’s got to see you do it.”

“Obviously,” said Rumlow, grinning.

He pictured Barnes with his throat laid open. Maybe Cap with his guts out, watching him with his boyfriend.

“Angel’s hiding in a fragile mind,” said Caim, shaking feathers from his jacket. “Do the other one first.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Rumlow and just like Jones the demons didn’t see him coming. Oso in the chest, Caim in the throat and head. The floor behind them was painted with green and black. After the noise of the gunshots, the warehouse seemed quiet as the grave.

“Ain’t nobody touching those two but me,” he said to the two corpses, to the warehouse at large. He paused, letting it sink in, letting them get a good long look. Not even magical shit was going to stop Brock Rumlow. “Get back to work. And somebody get rid of these,” he added with a nod at the two corpses. He was getting excited. He was so close, so near to finally getting a knife into super-soldier flesh.

Then there was a-

-thud.

Rumlow didn’t know-

-it but that was the noise-

-of something dropping gear into a lower dimension.

Something crawling out.

The edge of Caim’s jacket - soaked with something that might be blood - lifted and a long frond slipped out. It circled Caim’s arm and used it to drag itself out, inch by inch, dozens more tentacles and fronds then an elongated thing like a squid’s head. Rumlow lifted his gun, sighting along it as pressure built in his skull. And somehow the pressure became words.

***

“So what makes you think it’s this one?”

Bucky unclipped the thermos from his waist and put it between his legs. He felt better up here on the roof. People rarely looked upwards.

“Windows,” he said as he carefully unscrewed the lid. “They’re not dirty, they’ve blacked them out. And new lock there.” He nodded at the door, at the shiny lock at odds with the battered steel door.

“Demons aren’t big on locks,” said Crowley, squinting at the warehouse.

“Something must be going on there,” said Aziraphale, using Bucky’s mouth, “or else why would they bother?”

Bucky glanced over at the next building. He didn’t hear anything, but if they’d blacked out the windows and changed the locks, a bit of sound dampening wouldn’t be out of the question. But why would they? It’s not like there were people out here to hear. Around this fenced-off area, there were miles of scrubland and a single road until you hit the big supermarket.

Up at the top, there was a row of big windows. Most of the other warehouses had had them put through, but only one was missing here. Crowley followed his gaze.

“I could have a look through.”

Bucky took a measured look at Crowley’s suit and snake-skin shoes. His mouth said,

“But you’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“Certainly,” he said, drawing out the word. He lowered himself against the corrugated iron roof, and then Bucky got a glimpse of a horrifying in-between state and closed his eyes. When the meaty noises stopped, there was a snake sprawled across the metal. Magic.

“I hope you got good aim,” said the snake, holding up its upper body to look Bucky right in the eyes. His eyes were gold. “Chuck me onto the other roof.”

Bucky curled his fist. It was okay. It technically wasn’t touching another person or another person touching him. He could handle animals. Almost certainly. He wedged the thermos into a hole in the roof and slid over. He could feel the long, scaly body radiating heat. Kind of like Steve did and that’s what made him finally grab him. No security briefing could last forever. The gap between warehouses was wide enough for vehicles to pass by each other. Bucky could easily throw a grenade that distance. Probably manage a snake. He got up onto his feet, balancing carefully.

The door below burst open and Bucky threw himself onto his belly. A man in fatigues came out, dragging a corpse behind him. It was wrapped up in canvas, but Bucky knew a body when he saw one. Another corpse followed carried by two men. Both sets of wrappings were stained green and black.

“See that?” said Crowley into his ear. “S’ichor. Demon blood.”

Dead then. One problem down. But the men carrying them were in fatigues and body armour, high-quality stuff. And though Bucky didn’t know them, he knew the set of their shoulders, the look on their faces. People who could deal out pain without a second thought. And then _he_ stepped out.

He wore black, violent slashes of white the only other colour. He carried a gun and across his shoulders was a pale, tumour-like mass of fronds and writhing stalks.

“Hey, Barnes!” Rumlow yelled, masked face turning up to face Bucky directly, “You coming down to play?”

The bottom dropped out of Bucky’s stomach. His hand started to shake, his knees weak. Once again he was frozen in place.

“Run, you idiot!” hissed Crowley and Bucky did.

Bucky scrambled down the roof, corrugated iron shaking under his weight as he slid down the other side. Blood pounded in his ears. The edge came up and he launched himself into thin air. The ground came rushing up at him and he rolled when he hit. Staggering upwards - centre of gravity off, empty sleeve flapping - he started to run.

He could hear cars starting somewhere behind him. He could outrun a car. With two arms.

“What’s your hurry, Barnes?” Don’t look back. Don’t look at him. “Playing hard to get?” Why was his voice able to cut through?

Dumpster out of the corner of his eye. Against the fence. Leap once - boots noisy on the lid - then up, over the fence. Behind the fence, it was low scrubland with little cover. He picked up speed, hearing engines drawing closer. The road in front of him was empty and in the distance, beyond the supermarket, there was the wood. They’d never catch him there. No room for cars and Bucky knew how to vanish. He put on another burst of speed, his wonderful super-efficient heart speeding up under metal and bone. One minute miles were easy. Through a gap between cars, turning sideways to fit through and stumble on out. Ignoring someone’s startled cry, Bucky streaked across the road up into the big parking lot. The trees looked close enough to touch, red and brown and orange cover, leading him all the way back home to the Compound. Later, he would remember the Army and the sniper training and the lectures about that bane of sharpshooters, hyper-focusing. All he heard was the squealing of brakes and everything went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

All Steve thought as he pushed the speed limit all the way down to the supermarket was _please let Bucky be okay_. He hadn’t been worried when he’d come back to an empty apartment: Bucky had mentioned he might go for a walk. But when time dragged on, Steve finally called him only to have a stranger answer the phone. A _paramedic_.

The bright lights of the supermarket loomed ahead and Steve pulled into the parking lot. What was Bucky doing here? He hated the fluorescent lights and the crowds. And with Rumlow about, he should’ve been safe at the Compound. God, what if this was Rumlow? If one of his loyalists just took the chance and ran Bucky down in the street. Left him bleeding on the tarmac like something less than a dog.

He could see the high, boxy shape of the ambulance now. A slight paramedic leant against the side, one of those electronic cigarettes in her one hand, a familiar phone in the other. Blue case decorated with stars - the one he’d given to Bucky. A Steve Rogers Original, Bucky had called it, grinning up at him. His heart clenched in his chest. _Please let Bucky be okay._

He screeched to a halt and climbed out of the car.

“I called?” he blurted out. They knew that. “Thanks for waiting.”

“I shouldn’t,” said the paramedic, holding out the phone. “He’s stable, Captain Rogers, but he got hit by a car. He needs to go in for checks.”

Stable. Bucky was stable. Their second chance hadn’t ended. Steve took the phone back.

“I know that, but he can’t go into a hospital. He’ll get full medical care at home, but he’s-” Scared, terrified, traumatised by the thought of strangers’ hands on him and double that for doctors. “-got PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m going to have to stress that he can’t go into a hospital. I’ve got full power of attorney here. He’ll tell you the same thing himself.”

He pulled the document out of his pocket and handed it over. These battles, like all many others in his life, he fought with a clear plan of action, determination, and willingness to take on advice from others when needed. Bucky trusted him to do it and he’d told him when they’d signed the papers, delicately typing it all out on his tablet.

“Captain Rogers-” said the paramedic and she was cut off by a crash from inside. A single voice started to appeal for calm. Not Bucky, Bucky would be mute. Steve ran for the door. There was the other paramedic - big man, big beard, tattoos all down his arm - but Steve dismissed him because decorated with broken restraints, struggling to get the brace off his head was Bucky. It definitely was him; he was too frightened to be in the Winter Soldier state. His eyes were huge, his chest heaving. As bad as that dream had been it was nothing on seeing Bucky terrified like this in real life.

“Bucky, Bucky!” 

Bucky froze, his fingers tangled in the straps, almost vibrating with anxiety. He hated things on his head, he hated restraints. It reminded him of the Chair, the one that ripped out Bucky’s memories, leaving scars that hadn’t totally healed even today.

“Hi, Buck,” said Steve. He undid the straps for him, ignoring the paramedics talking about neck injuries. As soon as the brace lifted off, Bucky grabbed at Steve’s sleeve, his fingers digging in. When they’d fought Tony together, he’d grabbed onto his shirt leaving bloodstains behind. Bucky’s hands were grazed, so was his right cheek. His hoodie was unzipped, his shirt half cut off. Coming to with someone cutting his clothes off would have scared him half to death.

“It’s okay,” he said, gentle as anything, “I’m taking you home. Told you didn’t I, I’d keep you safe.” Except something had happened to him, something had happened to Bucky and caused a chain of events that led to him being run down in a parking lot.

“If you’re taking him, I need you to sign this.” The paramedic had a tablet in his hands. His eyes strayed over the broken belts, the dent in the guard rail and the wall of the ambulance. “You shouldn’t have taken the brace off.”

The arm closest to the paramedic was Steve’s left, the one that Bucky was clinging to, so Steve turned and awkwardly took the tablet with his right hand.

“Please charge us for the damage,” he said. He wanted to justify it beyond the four letters PTSD. He wanted to tell them Bucky had spent decades under the thumb of people that hurt him, and his brain kept flashing back to them, and that Bucky was otherwise so gentle and funny and charming when he could be. But it was easier to sign, pass it back, then coax Bucky out of the van. Bucky moved stiffly but, miraculously, he seemed to have escaped major harm. Whether a slow-moving car or the serum’s resilience, Steve was thankful for it. He got Bucky sat down and buckled in and closed the door softly. The paramedics were both standing outside the van looking in at their broken stretcher. Steve was torn between thanking them and apologising, but for once he was too slow and they both clambered into the van without saying anything to him. He got into the driver’s seat and started the car.

Buck sat quietly, head against the window. His one hand lay in his lap, the grazes facing up. Now that Steve could focus on something else other than finding him, he noticed that Bucky was wearing fatigues. When he’d left for the security briefing, Bucky had been wearing sweats. And he was wearing his boots too, the ones that had to be laced all the way up. Bucky could do sneakers one-handed, but he’d have to have had help with those boots. Steve should’ve checked the security footage, he should’ve asked FRIDAY if someone had left with Bucky.

“...You okay, Buck? Any bad pain?”

Bucky blinked - Steve saw the reflection in the window - and lifted his head off the window. It was getting dark out and Bucky’s face was lit up by passing streetlights.

“I’m fine, Steve.”

“You got hit by a car, Buck!”

“It’s not the first time,” he muttered, turning back into the window.

“I know it’s not-” Steve stopped himself from snapping, taking a deep breath. “I’m not mad, Bucky. I just need to know why you were out there.”

Silence from Bucky. He was watching the trees.

“Bucky, honey. If someone made you leave-”

“I’m not a kid getting lured out with a handful of candy.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Bucky turned in his seat. “I ain’t helpless, but you want to treat me like I am.”

“How do you want me to treat you, Buck? Because I don’t think I’m acting strangely here. I want to know why you were out there when there’s an active threat out against you.” He turned at the Compound entrance, the gate already sliding aside having scanned his license plate, face, and passengers. “If anything happened to you-”

“It has happened to me!” Bucky was suddenly spitting mad, his back up. “What don’t you get about that? Some of us didn’t get to sleep in the ice for seventy years!”

“Buck, I-” As soon as he slowed the car to pull into a space, Bucky opened the door, seat belt flapping loose. “Hey, Buck!” Steve pulled on the handbrake and scrambled out too, leaving the car running.

“I can take care of myself!” he snapped, stalking stiffly across the asphalt.

This had happened before more than once. Sam had explained it, helpfully before the first argument. Bucky would push back and his target would likely be Steve because Steve was safe, Steve was a constant, Steve was the only thing Bucky had from his past. The advice had been to try not to take it personally, but also make sure Bucky knew that it wasn’t okay. But Bucky had never had an expression like that on his face those other times. He looked angry but brittle. 

Steve caught up to him easily. 

“No one’s doubting that. You’re so strong, Bucky.”

“Then why don’t you act like it.” Bucky stopped short, drawing himself up, the distance between them only a couple of feet but at the same time vast. “Is it because the real Bucky Barnes was?”

“You _are_ the real Bucky Barnes,” said Steve. “I’ve loved you all my life.”

“You’re just waiting for _him_ to come back.”

“Bucky, why are you treating yourself like you’re worthless? You need to give me some help here.” The conversation was slipping out of his hands and he couldn’t seem to get it back. “I _do_ think you’re strong, but no one can be strong all the time. And it doesn’t matter because I love you - the one standing here.”

“Some broken thing you got to drag around with you.”

“Buck-”

“The real Bucky Barnes could fuck you.”

Steve felt his face crumple. The image of Bucky from his dream floated up, the frightened eyes, the shaking hand.

"That doesn't matter to me. Not one iota, Bucky. After all we’ve been through-"

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Bucky turned away, hunching up. “Just leave me alone.” 

Steve wanted to reach out, wanted to go round and look Bucky in the eye and say… But he couldn’t think what to say except for I love you. That simple fact had been part of his life for so long that it went without saying. It was written on his bones, he’d carried it with him into the new century. When Bucky had been lying in a hospital bed in the Tower, thin skin stretched over bones, he’d told Sam he’d step aside if Bucky didn’t want him like that anymore. And that made him a hypocrite because here he was and he didn’t want to. He didn’t believe it.

“Could you at least go to Medical and get yourself checked out?” he said to the familiar line of Bucky’s back. “It might not be the first time but you can still get hurt.”

Bucky said nothing but started walking. Steve didn’t go after him and Bucky didn’t look back.

***

Crowley wished for a pair of hands. He wished that he and Aziraphale were having a cosy, wine-soaked chat in the back room of the bookshop. Most of all he wished that when he’d told Bucky Barnes to run he’d added: “And pick me up!”. Not that he was casting blame on the young man. Seeing the Winter Soldier running around with a ten-foot-long snake wrapped around his neck would ring some alarm bells and it would have slowed him down. It was close enough for what Crowley saw from his perch up on the roof. Barnes had narrowly avoided getting shot and he’d sped away across the flat landscape, pursued by cars. He was fast and he’d gone towards that big supermarket, towards the woods. At the moment, Crowley had to trust that Barnes’ precious cargo was alright.

Humans could be trusted to ignore or explain away a lot of unusual activity, but humans who’d just seen two demons gunned down were going to be a little suspicious of a golden-eyed, pitch-black snake taking a look around. So he quickly half-climbed, half-fell down to the ground - no sauntering today - and stuck his head around the door.

It stunk of chemicals in here and there were big plastic drums, long tables covered with tools, computers, and sundry metal bits. He flicked out his tongue a few times to smell the air - and he did not miss that when he was in human form - and made a face. He slithered in further just in case someone gave up on searching early and peered down the warehouse. Someone had partly screened off a living area at the other end and that was where Rumlow was. Crossbones, the news had called him, and he was a scary man if Barnes’ reaction to seeing him was anything to go by.

Rumlow was sitting facing away from Crowley and he wore a pale white creature across his shoulders, tentacles and frills tumbling down his back like a cloak. Crowley didn’t know what - or who? - that was. He’d not been Downstairs for a long old time and even before he was _persona non grata_ he rarely went down into the depths where it got _weird_. Looking at the thing made Crowley’s head hurt like it did before his ears popped on a plane. He slithered behind a stacked pyramid of drums, thinking of the thermos up on the roof. A good splash would take care of the problem, but if he got discorporated too then who would help out Aziraphale? He doubted there was enough room in Barnes’ head for the two of them.

Parked up down the other end were a trio of vans and Crowley slithered up there, keeping an eye on Rumlow. The man was muttering either to himself or the thing that was hitching a ride and either one of those was a sign of a man with a tenuous grip on reality. Not someone Crowley wanted to meet face-to-face. The most sensible thing to do would be to put in an anonymous tip to the Avengers and let them deal with it.

His snake body picked up approaching vehicles and boots. Quickly he slithered through the open door of the nearest van. There were more drums in here and Crowley hid amongst them. These drums had wires coming out of the top. And big bags of nails and metal scrap. And a mobile phone wired into it.

Oh no.

“It’s time to fucking move,” growled Rumlow. No spooky voice, no head spinning around. That man was entirely himself. And, as Crowley liked to point out, nothing that a demon could do to humans was worse than what they did to themselves. “Get all this shit out of here.”

“He got hit by a car-”

“And?” said Rumlow, slamming his fist against something hollow and metal and hopefully not explosive. “You think that screwball’s going to die like that? He’ll be telling his sob story to the Avengers inside of an hour.”

Crowley slithered closer, nosing between the drums. The warehouse was full of rushing people dressed like they were about to go into a warzone. And there was Rumlow and his new friend. Best thing would be to hide behind something and wait for all of them to clear out. Alas, Crowley wasn’t that lucky. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, a man pulled the door across and plunged Crowley into darkness. Not a big problem for a demon, but he couldn’t escape without going all occult. Who knew what the thing from Downstairs could sniff out? So he was stuck in here. With a bomb. Movies had told Crowley that disarming bombs was a matter of cutting the right wire, but who knew which one was the right one in that tangle. Beneath him, the floor started to shake as the van started and it seemed like an excellent time for some hands.

After a few brief organic noises, Crowley crouched down with his phone. He had the license plates of the vans: a good memory was an important tool in the demon’s arsenal. Unfortunately, he also had two other vans which were driving around full of eyes to see him. He had the bomb itself and its pointy metal bits that were poking him in the leg. Drums and wires and the phone on top like a perfectly placed cherry on a Bakewell tart.

Crowley blinked in the dark. Carefully, he stood up steadying himself with a hand on the wall. The phone - a cheap one like Crowley used to have fifteen years ago - winked at him from where it had been carefully taped into place. Crowley didn’t know much about bombs, but again movies had told him that when it was time, the phone would ring and make it go off somehow.

It couldn’t be as simple as turning off the phone, could it?

He stepped closer. The on/off button was a small, round one on the front, just below the screen that innocently displayed the time and five healthy bars of signal. If he was wrong, he could be blown Downstairs in a heartbeat. Probably studded with a thousand nails instead of with half a femur lodged in his chest. But on the other hand, he could sort out this one bomb.

He pressed the button and held it down. The only noise was the rattle of the van. Crowley held his breath.

Under the tape, the phone played a cheery little tune and the screen went black.

After what seemed like a long time, Crowley stepped back, sliding down into a sitting position. Okay. That worked. Step two - Escape - would have to wait until they split the convoy. Once his hands stopped shaking then he was going to move onto step three. He was going to call in the Avengers.

***

Aziraphale had waited very politely. He’d done one major miracle keeping Bucky from any harm - who drove that fast looking for a parking space? - and one minor one taking Bucky’s phone off silent so the nice people in the ambulance could hear the call. He continued waiting as Bucky was bundled into a car, had a flaming row with his beau, and then stormed off, buoyed up on brain chemicals. He waited still as Bucky got onto a roof via an open office window and then proceeded to sit down with his head in his hand, occasionally groaning. It was at that point Aziraphale ventured forth with a polite cough.

Bucky lifted his head up,

“What?”

“Nothing too important, my boy. I was just wondering how you were. Well,” he added, taking control of Bucky’s hand to tuck it into his pocket, “considering we’re sitting on a very cold roof after dark I could guess.”

Bucky wedged himself further into the gap between two boxy machines,

“I shouldn’t have said those things to Steve.”

“I’m sure he knows that you didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t! But the point is that I shouldn’t have said them. None of this is Steve’s fault. Not the arm, not anything. If he knew I’d survive falling off that train, he’d have followed me in a heartbeat.” He sighed deeply, his breath visible in the chilly air. “He’s too good for me.”

“You’re a perfectly pleasant young man-”

“You miss that last argument?”

“-and he certainly loves you back. It just comes off the two of you in waves whenever you’re in the same room.”

Bucky blinked.

“Waves?”

“Angels are creatures of love. We sense this kind of thing.”

Bucky tipped his head back looking up into the sky. Clouds were covering the stars and the moon was a silvery impression off to one side.

“Should you be approving of this? Of two guys?”

“The Almighty never disproved of that.”

“Could’ve fooled me sometimes.” 

Above them the moon appeared briefly in a gap in the cloud, a half-moon perfectly balanced between light and dark. Off in the distance, there was a faint rumble like a lorry going by.

“I got to apologise and just hope I haven’t…” He rubbed his mouth with his hand. Aziraphale, who had felt love bouncing everywhere even during that argument, was quietly confident.

"He will forgive you," said Aziraphale, trying to imbibe that sentence with a little of the Divine Forgiveness he'd flooded Bucky's veins with back in London. Bucky moved their shared head to look over at the residential building they'd left off in the distance. He shivered, burying himself deeper into his sweater. “Least he’ll let us inside,” he said and got out from between the machines.

He stepped out towards the edge of the roof but paused. Off on the horizon was a faint orange glow. Behind them, something started to power up on the other side of the Compound.

***

Bucky knew what the Quinjet sounded like when it was preparing for takeoff, just like he knew that Steve always said goodbye whether it was a mission or just leaving for a meeting. His phone hadn’t rung at all. As he swung down from the roof and through Kim from HR’s office window, he thought that maybe he didn’t deserve a goodbye, but he thrust that thought down and ran as fast he could. His balance was still off, his right side aching from the car earlier. But he still ran, almost careening into walls and down stairways, until he got in sight of the landing pad just in time to see the Quinjet lift off.

He watched it scream into the sky. Well, what did he expect? Go around yelling at your sweetheart and in the ugliest way then, of course, Steve was going to give him some space. All the space he needed and more.

If anything happened to Steve and that was the last thing he said to him, Bucky would never forgive himself.

“Bucky?”

Bucky jumped. There, just across from him, was Steve Rogers in all his red-white-and-blues with the shield strapped to his back. Undeniably real. That reserved expression on his face, Bucky had caused that. Bucky stopped short of crashing into Steve, not daring to touch him. He worked his jaw but he’d been struck mute, all his words crumbling in the face of Steve’s blue eyes. But he knew the sign for sorry, one fist circling his chest.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he signed. Then it was like all the signs spilt out like he’d forgotten he was missing one hand, and he flashed nonsense at Steve. Maybe he could guess at _fuck up_ and _what_ and _taken for granted_ , but _shouldn’t_ _have_ and _I don’t know_ were done properly and maybe that was enough. What Steve should've done was refused the apology, turned his back and told him, quite rightly, he was on his own now. But because Steve was a beautiful, glorious, big-hearted idiot, he said,

"You've got nothing to be sorry for."

Steve closed the gap, putting one arm carefully around him. Bucky leant in, smelling Kevlar and Steve’s smell, feeling his chest untighten a little. Steve was too good for him, oh God, was he ever too good for him. He should've gone for someone easier, maybe one of the soft queens that used to mother him sometimes when he was small. Maybe even a woman. Should've started dating in the future so there'd be someone to save him from this broken mess of man he had to haul around.

"I am sorry," said Bucky and there was his voice again. “Sorry for being difficult.”

“You’re worth it and so much more, honey. Just... try not to do something like that again?”

Bucky closed his eyes, snaking his arm around Steve’s waist. He didn’t deserve this, but he’d take it. Hard times shouldn’t be an excuse to take it out on people, let alone Steve.

“You’re cold, baby.” Steve rubbed his back, big artist’s hand like a hot water bottle. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

The Compound was a hive of activity. Bucky had ignored it on the way to the landing pad, but now it was almost too much. People carrying equipment, people loading up vans. Steve’s hand on his arm helped.

“There was an explosion down in Milltown,” said Steve and Bucky looked again at the orange glow in the sky. It had gotten bigger. “Only an abandoned warehouse, but we got a tip-off that there's more to come. We think it’s Rumlow.”

Bucky closed his eyes but all he could see was that black mask surrounded by white growth. Nothing on Earth looked like that. His stomach started to churn, but he hadn’t eaten since lunch. No food in there to vomit up.

“That’s why you’re hanging back,” he said, focusing on Steve’s light hand.

“Wanda too. I _insisted_.” Steve tugged on his arm lightly and when Bucky turned, he said, “I promise I’ll keep you safe, Buck.”

Bucky imagined Steve hearing FRIDAY’s alert the first time, of being forced to send Sam ahead. Saw Sam’s hands again, stained with Bucky’s blood as he tried to stop the bleeding.

“When you see him bring him down. Don’t give him an opening.”

Because Rumlow certainly wouldn’t hesitate. He’d fight dirty and he’d fight unfairly. But so would Steve. Steve had been fighting dirty all his life and dressing him up in a flag didn’t change that.

“I won’t.” He squeezed Bucky’s fingers gently like a benediction. “Medical’s locking down soon. Dr Castillo said she could give you the two-minutes clothes-on scan in your room. You don’t have to go into the rest of the building if you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” said Bucky.

Steve went rummaging in his belt and produced an energy bar. He had to let go of Bucky’s hand to give it to him, but that in itself was such a sweet gesture that Bucky wanted to cry. With everything else happening, Steve had found time to wonder if Bucky had eaten.

“I sent some food over there. And a new shirt. But that'll tide you over. It’s chocolate chip.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

Medical loomed closer. There were medical staff chatting in the doorway, but the windows of Bucky’s room were dark. No one would be there in that safe, dim space.

“I meant what I said,” Steve said suddenly, “I love the you that’s right here.”

“I know.” When Bucky felt more stable, he was going to work even harder at therapy. He’d kiss Steve on the mouth and thank him for all he did for him. “Stay safe, sweetheart.”

Steve put his finger to his lip and then a flat palm to his fist and that was _promise_.

Steve had not only sent a shirt to Medical, but also another hoodie, a Tupperware full of noodle salad, a replacement shake, and Bucky’s earpiece. Bucky stood still long enough for Dr Castillo to run the scanner over him and then dove in, shovelling big forkfuls into his mouth. His passenger stayed quiet until the last morsel of noodle and the last drop of shake had vanished.

“What do we do now?” asked Aziraphale as Bucky put the earpiece in.

“Waiting, mostly.”

“Well, that hasn’t changed.” Aziraphale used Bucky’s mouth to sigh and Bucky saw no messages on his phone.

“He’ll be fine. Your…” Bucky ran through his vocabulary for relationships, much of which he’d had to re-remember over the years and some of which was new. “Your partner seemed like the kind of guy who can take care of himself.”

“You’re right, of course. But it’s the waiting.”

Bucky hummed in agreement. He changed clothes, keeping the boots and fatigues. He had a feeling he’d be needing them. He sat on the couch watching the dark waters outside and listening out for the familiar sounds of violence.


	7. Chapter 7

“We found the van,” said Sam as he and Vision landed. And thank God the police had cordoned off the area. Where the van was parked, an explosion could take out a big chunk of the parking lot, the entrance to this outdoor mall, and a restaurant with big windows. There were half-eaten meals still in there. Drinks with ice that hadn’t melted yet.

“Still quiet here,” said Steve in his ear. 

“Glad to hear you made up with your boyfriend,” said Sam, quietly so no non-Avengers would hear, and was rewarded with a hasty cough. Sam had spent a lot of time with the guy over the years and he liked to think he could read the guy almost as well as Bucky.

“Good to hear,” said Tony, currently tracking down a different van down in the city, “I mean you guys are my relationship goals. At least if I can get Pepper to wear black leather and Kevlar.”

“I can hear the released tension from here.”

Sam could feel the tension in his own body. This was the start of something, he could feel it. He couldn’t help but think that going out to these car bombs was playing into Rumlow’s hands. But at least if Steve was happy that meant he’d found Bucky and that meant Bucky was somewhere safe. Sam shook his head. Finish up here and get back to the Compound. 

“I will see what we’re dealing with,” said Vision, ghosting through into the van.

Sam tapped at his wrist. He knew bomb-making was harder than movies made out to be and luckily he had FRIDAY uploaded to the computer on his wrist. She was basically a step-by-step guide to any bomb you might come across and if disarming failed, he could get Vision to throw the entire van into the river or something.

Vision reappeared out of the side of the van.

“So what we got?” said Sam, before his eyes were drawn to what was sprawled over Vision’s shoulders. It was a whole-ass snake, black with gold eyes, and Sam didn’t know if Vision could be suffocated but this looked like a long-enough snake to do it.

“Vision,” he said slowly, “what is that?”

“It’s a snake,” said Vision. On his one shoulder, the snake lifted its head and gave Sam a look. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d have called it a judgmental look.

“At least one of you has a pair of eyes in your head,” said the snake. At least the snake’s mouth went up and down and words came out but the snake didn’t talk because that was impossible, snakes didn’t talk.

“You’ve gone cross-eyed,” said the snake in open defiance of Sam’s logic and basic biology. “Look, I’d love to give you the whole spiel, but I really need to get back to your secret club.” It turned on itself like it was pointing. “I disarmed the bomb for you. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“The bomb is disarmed,” chimed in Vision, serene as could be.

“Why are you so calm about this?” Sam said. He lived with superpeople so he was used to a certain level of weird shit, but sometimes a man just had to draw the line at Vision: Disney princess. “You don’t find this odd.”

“Of course,” said Vision, “though I cannot doubt the evidence before me. The snake is talking. Ignoring it won’t change the fact. Especially if you’re hearing it too.”

“Yeah, yeah, listen to your shiny friend here and take me back.” The snake reared up over Vision’s head, looking in the direction of the Compound, forty miles away. “Your other friends are about to meet something weird and dangerous and that’s just the other humans.”

Sam touched his earpiece.

“Steve?”

But no one answered.

***

In his time as the Winter Soldier, Bucky had learnt that still way he had. He could’ve almost passed for asleep, but he was just conserving energy for later. Voices came through the earpiece. Everything had been quiet so far - even his passenger had nothing to say - and that made Bucky nervous. Sometimes the waiting was the worse part.

Steve’s voice came in - “nothing on the eastern perimeter” - and that at least made Bucky smile. Didn’t he always say that Steve was a natural leader? Pity no one else saw it until after the dangerous experimental procedure.

He got to his feet and went to the window. When it was light out it was a great view. In the dark, the waters drew the eye like a deep, dark pit, the kind that you could never climb out of. And with the moon hiding again…

Bucky frowned, pressing his fingertips against the glass. He always had good eyes and he thought he could see some shape out there on the water. Something black, or nearly that, on the black water. He turned away from his reflection. The exit only a few steps away from the door to his room by design. Few more steps and Bucky was out on the grass. There was the noise of water, the whisper of wind. Then the moon, miraculously and suddenly, slipped free of the clouds.

Three boats moved quietly across the water, two crammed with men and the third - out in front - carrying some low machine. Bucky’s hand flew to his ear,

“Steve-”

The machine flashed bright enough to leave afterimages in Bucky’s eyes. His earpiece died with a brief squawk of static, the lights of Medical and the landing pad and beyond followed. EMP. At least Bucky didn’t have a dead left arm to drag around. The two boats picked up speed, the noise of the engines clearly coming across the water.

Bucky turned. Steve reported his last position on the eastern perimeter, before that over by Residential, which meant he was heading to the main entrance. Engine noise and the readying of weapons echoed in his ears as he ran. Any minute, a bullet could go through his back. But he’d been shot before.

Wanda was in the air over the parking lot, surrounded by red light and Bucky angled himself towards her. In his mind, he could see troops grounding their boats, booted feet on the grass of Bucky’s home. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply up at her. She was focussing on the road because Rumlow’s MO was simple: ramming with cars, explosives, bullets you could buy at any Walmart in the country.

“Bucky?” she said, coming down to a mere six feet above the ground.

Bucky flashed her the sign for _water_ \- _lake_ needed two hands to do. Just in case she didn’t get it, he also pointed behind him towards the lake.

“Bucky?” and that was his sweetheart, and Bucky was getting a little tired of everyone being so shocked to see him.

 _Water, water_ , he signed to Steve and he got it right away.

“He’s coming in from the water!” shouted Steve, “Move it all-”

He was suddenly in front of Bucky, shield raised and Bucky heard the bullet ricochet off it. His stomach clenched, his chest tightened. Not now, not now.

“Hey, Cap! You miss me?”

Steve was in the way, but Bucky could see the white tendrils drifting peacefully through the air, yards above where Rumlow would be standing. Beside him, Wanda whispered,

“What the hell?”

“Rumlow,” said Steve, clipped and precise. Bucky didn’t want that name in Steve’s mouth.

“How’s your boyfriend, Rogers? He missing me too? You know I got some new friends who might like to meet him. Told them all about what he likes.”

Steve vibrated with anger, his body coiling tighter ready to spring. For Bucky though it loosened those bands across his chest. It wouldn’t be like before. No one would touch him if Steve were here.

“You won’t get close enough, I promise you that,” he said. Wanda signed _here_ to Bucky. Sam had said that he was surrounded by people who loved him. Avengers would be winging their way back home right now. And he had Steve.

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Cap,” said Rumlow and with a rush, the thing around his shoulders leapt into the sky.

The clouds were visible still through that white, tumour-like mass. Bucky reached for Steve, but Steve was faster. He grabbed Bucky around the waist - alarm bells ringing at the rough touch - and flung him away. Bucky bounced across the turf, rolling to a halt as the _thing_ fell onto Steve and Wanda.

“No,” he said, no words coming out, no hand movements, just a silent movement of his mouth.

A few tentacles reached for him, stretching as Bucky scrambled away, getting close enough for Bucky to pick out little sprouts on the underside before the red light framed them, froze them, and dragged them back. Wanda was crouched in among it all and Steve was above her, keeping it up with his shield. Despite himself, Bucky took a few steps closer. He only had the one arm, but it was strong enough to help keep the shield aloft. Steve caught him with that fierce blue gaze he’d known, on some level, all his life.

“Get out of here! Run!”

And he did.

He took off, for the third time today, hearing Rumlow laughing behind him.

“We should help!” said Aziraphale with Bucky’s mouth.

They were, Bucky wanted to say. He was helping because Rumlow was coming after him instead of Steve and Wanda. But he needed his breath, he needed to be quiet. And he needed a plan.

The gym, dark as the rest of the Compound, came up on Bucky’s left and he veered off towards it. He ignored the changing rooms ahead of him and went into the gym itself. This was a single, huge room fully equipped with things like a track, weights, and, Bucky’s goal, the climbing tower. Little light came in through the tinted windows, but Bucky knew his way around and he had good eyes. He got to the ladder, climbing up quickly as he could. Any moment now the door could crash open and Rumlow could… But then his hand met the flat surface of the look-out and he pulled himself up, dropping behind the low wall.

“We’re trapped,” hissed Aziraphale in a whisper and Bucky pressed a finger to his lips. Rumlow would have to come up if he wanted a shot. He might even miss it altogether in the dark. If he was looking for Bucky, he wasn’t hurting Steve.

He flinched as the door banged open. There was no sound, no movement, apart from the door closing again. Then the heavy tread of boots. Bucky risked a careful glance over his cover. Rumlow’s helmet glowed faintly green. Night vision. He dropped back down, trying to think over the bright flashes of panic.

“Hey, Bucky Barnes.” He called, voice drawing closer. “You playing hard to get tonight? You gonna tease me like that? I got a plan.” Something clanged down below and Bucky bit his lip. He could almost smell Rumlow’s armour, his hot, stinking breath. “Going to break the other arm. Going to drag you by it all the way back to Cap. Then I’m going to show him all the things we used to get up to. Do you think he thinks about it sometimes? All the guys you used to let fuck you?”

Steve’s face came up in Bucky’s mind’s eye like a magic talisman. Just a couple of hours ago, he’d squeezed Bucky’s fingers and told him that he’d loved him just as he was. He’d sewed a self-soothing bag out of shirt scraps and washed his hair for him. He’d flung Bucky out of the way of the white monster instead of saving himself.

He took a breath and then put a finger to his cheek. Carefully, slowly, he traced the shape of an L then an I. When he’d traced the word ‘LIGHT?’ he paused and his passenger carefully nodded his head for him. There was noise below of someone climbing. Bucky lifted his hand, ignoring the trembling. He waited, ready, as the first slice of black helmet appeared in his sight.

***

The creature stunk. To Steve, it smelt like perfume, a smell that took him straight back to the war. They’d found the woman hanging from a lamppost, lipstick still perfect, not even smeared by the noose. The sign around her neck - translated by Gabe, who’d spat out the words - said ‘I would not let my children fight’. Her body had felt so heavy when they’d taken her down to lay her on the grass with no time to bury-

“ _Steve_!”

Wanda’s cry cut through the memory. Steve was kneeling and he couldn’t remember doing that. Wanda was above him, holding the thing up and immobile.

“You need to go after him,” said Wanda, her voice strained with the effort of it, “He’s going after Bucky.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

The fronds were trying to break free, getting free enough for little whips of movement before Wanda held them back down. One moment of hesitation and the whole thing would come down and crush them.

“You must.” She grinned. Sweat was running down the side of her face. “I can do this, Steve.” She shifted, planting herself like a tree, “Get ready.”

Her tone brooked no argument. Steve lifted himself onto his feet against the weight of the thing. Wanda took a breath of the foul, stinking air and _pushed_. Red light covered her face, Steve’s hands. The thing writhed as it was lifted up and up from the ground until there was a space big enough for Steve.

As soon as Steve cleared, the weight dropped again. Wanda was standing strong in the middle of it. The air wasn’t fresh out here. It stunk of gunpowder and Steve took the opportunity to smash his shield into the face of one of Rumlow’s men. His head turned in the direction Bucky had gone.

***

As soon as Rumlow’s helmet and the sickly green lenses of his night-vision goggles came into view, Bucky dropped his hand. The platform was immediately flooded with bright silver light, bright enough to make Bucky’s eyes sting, bright enough for Rumlow to roar in pain. Bucky lashed out and kicked him in the face. Another kick and he lost his grip on the ladder. As he fell fifteen feet down, Bucky scrambled to his feet and leapt from the platform. He knew this gym. His hand reached out for the ring hanging from the ceiling and caught it without looking. Bucky’s attention was on Rumlow, groaning on the ground, slowly pulling himself up. Bucky dropped, landing lightly into a roll. Nothing he’d not done a thousand times before.

“You…” hissed Rumlow and Bucky ran for the door, leaping over a tumbled weight rack. Rumlow wouldn’t fall for that trick a second time, but it had brought some time. If he could get to the parking lot maybe he could-

He reached the outside just as one of the windows blew outwards. Glass gleamed as it rained down onto the grass and Rumlow’s black armour.

“You fucking bitch, you fucking mental defective! What gives you the fucking _right_?”

He dragged his one leg behind him, lurching lopsidedly towards Bucky. Nerve damage could only protect him so far. His goggles dangled round his neck, his hands dangled too, weighed down by the gauntlets.

“I’m going to put your brains back in the scrambler. I’m going to cut out your tongue and fucking feed it to you.”

“You can barely move!” Bucky's voice echoed in the night air. It wasn’t loud, not really, but it made Rumlow rock back on his heels. “What can you do?”

“Finding some balls, Asset?” Rumlow tore off the helmet, dragged it off his face. The moonlight made interesting shadows on the burn scars, on the blasted landscape of his face. “You think you can go toe-to-toe with me, you fucking freak?”

Bucky took a deep breath.

“I don’t have to. I just gotta wait for him.”

Rumlow didn’t even get turned all the way round before Steve tackled him to the floor. From experience, Bucky knew that it felt like getting hit by a truck. Rumlow tried to punch him, but Steve grabbed his arm and twisted. Bucky swayed on the spot, listening to bones snap, listening to Rumlow scream in frustrated rage. He lifted his hand, something small and cylindrical in the palm.

“No!” Bucky leapt forward, grabbing the detonator. Steve punched Rumlow in the face, making his jaw yawn unnaturally. Bucky followed the wire and Rumlow hadn’t bothered to change from the old Hydra habits. Bucky could disarm his bombs in seconds. A tooth tumbled past his view. He yanked the wire free, snapping it with just a few second’s effort. Rumlow screamed up at him, but he couldn’t move, Bucky was kneeling on his one arm, Steve had his other arm and his chest. Rumlow was powerless.

“Nice work,” said Steve, in that deep and familiar voice. He was close enough to touch and Bucky leant forward so his head just brushed Steve’s shoulder. Rumlow was saying something but it was far away and so unimportant that it ran off Bucky’s back.

***

Wanda felt the thing above her as a physical weight and as a metaphysical one too. She was fighting a war on three separate fronts: keeping the monster from crushing her; keeping the monster from exploding outwards to hurt others; keeping it from getting into her mind. Her arms and legs were shaking, her hair was plastered to herself with sweat. With every heavy breath, she took in the smell of dust and rotting flesh. It was like something was trying to claw its way into her skull. And she could keep it out but it was a losing battle. 

Then she heard dimly on the edge of her senses a faint splash.

The screaming that came from nowhere and everywhere from the dimensions that only Wanda could sense rose into a fever pitch as all the white fronds and antenna and tentacles started to melt away like frost in the sunlight. The sudden loss of the resistance made Wanda crumble to her knees, the cold air shocking.

“Are you alright, Wanda?” said Vision.

“Yes.” She wiped the sweat off her forehead and found the strength to lift her head. Vision stood above her, a helping hand already held out and a thermos held in the other. Behind him was Sam and there was a snake wrapped around his waist. As she stared at it, the snake winked at her.

“There’s a snake,” she whispered to Vision as he pulled her to her feet.

“See?” it said to Sam. “Told you it would work. Now if you can put me down over there, thank you.”

Sam gave Wanda a kind of helpless look and did what the snake asked. It slithered into a neat coil and changed. On one side of a blink, a golden-eyed snake was on the grass, on the other side a man, sliding a pair of sunglasses over his golden eyes.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked around at the dead and those of Rumlow’s men who’d surrendered. Then lifted his face to the air, taking a deep breath. “You might want to get a move on.”

***

Bucky was the one who noticed the restraints on Rumlow’s belt and it was Steve who used them, tying Rumlow’s hands behind his back, suspecting why Rumlow had them. Bucky had retreated to the path, standing there with his one arm hugging himself. He was on edge right now. Steve could tell he wasn’t far off a panic attack. The priority had to be to get Rumlow into custody and then get Bucky out of here. Rumlow said something through his broken jaw and Steve shook him hard.

 _You’re doing great, Bucky_ , he signed with one hand and he got a brief _thank you_ in return.

There had been no gunshots for a while, so it should be safe to find the others. Maybe Sam was back - his earpiece was still dead so he couldn’t check-in - and he could help with Bucky.

 _Move back_ , he signed and Bucky moved away as he half-dragged, half-pushed Rumlow up onto the path. Bucky remained watchful, but he had a point there with the bomb. The bomb that _Bucky_ had disarmed.

“Guck,” said Rumlow. He tried to dig his heels in but Steve kept pushing, not caring that the pressure went on Rumlow’s broken arm. Call it payback for Bucky’s. Bucky himself was a quiet presence in the corner of his eye.

“Gug,” said Rumlow.

“You shouldn’t talk with that broken jaw,” said Steve. He didn’t care much about that either. Not even his knuckles hurt.

“Guck. You,” said Rumlow carefully and Steve saw the ring looped around his finger, the one he yanked from his suicide belt. He turned, ready to yell at Bucky to run, ready for the last thing he saw to be his sweetheart’s face, but Rumlow started to scream.

He was surrounded by fire and his bones glowed like they were burning phosphorus. Down the path was Wanda, arm outstretched, supported by Vision. He didn’t need to be told. He ran for the same shelter as Bucky - the heavy modern art thing like a smooth boulder - and dove behind it.

The explosion shook the ground and shattered windows. Bucky didn’t cry out. His face was set into a blank expression, his hand over his ear and pressing the other one to the ground.

Steve signed _ok?_ at him and he nodded.

There was a shallow crater where Rumlow had once stood. Steve tried not to look too closely at the debris scattered across the ground.

“Dead?” said Bucky, hovering. His hand was plucking at his hoodie rhythmically.

“He’s dead, honey.”

Wanda was breathing hard, Sam was advancing with open hands, and Bucky went into a panic attack. He fell to his knees, chest heaving. The ground was covered with broken glass and worse so Steve moved, thinking he could coax Bucky inside when suddenly Bucky just stopped. Like someone had flicked a switch, he stopped trembling, he fell silent, he froze into place. Then he stood back up, a totally foreign expression on his face.

“Buck?”

Bucky blinked - where he would have given him a measured look - and looked slightly embarrassed.

“I’m afraid,” he said in the wrong accent, in the wrong voice, “that young Mr Barnes isn’t capable of answering at the moment. So I’ve taken over. We should get all this sorted.”

“It’s nothing to be worried about.” A stranger slithered out from behind Sam. He was wearing sunglasses at night, which even Tony didn’t do. “Just a minor case of possession.”

“Hello, my dear,” said Bucky, beaming across at him. The real Bucky would have smiled with a mere curling of the corners of his mouth. The real Bucky would still be in the middle of a panic attack at just the thought of someone in his head again.

“Get out,” said Steve. His own voice surprised him, the barely suppressed growl. “Leave Bucky alone.”

“I would very much like to,” said Bucky, “it’s just I don’t have a body to go back to.”

“Can’t just go taking bodies,” said Sam. He came up to Steve’s side, sparing the time to squeeze his shoulder. “This isn’t _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_.”

“I do have permission, you know.” Bucky - Bucky’s body - sniffed. “Retroactively, but still.”

“Hey,” said a voice from above. “Why’s Bucky-bot British now?”

Tony landed heavily, the helmet snapping back.

“Wow,” he said, distracted by the gym’s empty windows and the new crater in the ground, “I leave you kids alone for five minutes…”

“Bucky Barnes is possessed,” said Vision serenely.

“It’s true,” said “Bucky”.

“Like in a head-spinning-round, pea soup kind of way?” Surprisingly Tony looked thoughtful. “You know, I think I know a guy.”

***

So it turned out Tony’s guy was another man with impeccable facial hair, one who was smart and he knew it. In other words, basically Tony in a cape and magic amulet. His name was Dr Strange and he entered the Compound via a glowing portal. Bucky’s body sat on a couch looking up at Strange with none of his usual shyness. The way he was sitting was wrong too, prim and careful.

“Yeah,” said Strange after a long pause, rolling the word around his mouth. “So this isn’t your standard possession. Less Exorcist, more… holy madman. I don’t know how many saints were really schizophrenic, but more than one might have had an angel hitching a ride.”

“I mean, Cap always thought his sweetheart was an angel,” said Tony. “Just not this literally.”

Strange made a gesture in the air like he was unzipping it, revealing a shimmering mirror-surface. Bucky was reflected in it until Strange said a few words. Then it rippled. It still showed the couch, the lamp, and the wall behind it, but instead sat there was a middle-aged stranger with short golden curls and a neat white suit. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in Steve’s old stomping grounds - in the bars where it had been okay to be openly on a date with Bucky - except for the halo like a big silver plate around his head.

Strange flourished a hand at the image.

"Hello," said Aziraphale, the angel. "It's lovely to meet you all."

"So can you..." Steve made a gesture. "Separate them?"

"It's difficult but there's literature on the subject." Strange squinted at the angel. "Mostly from the other side, but it's the same thing. Should be."

"Well, there are not many differences, not really."

The angel in the mirror chatted away and when Steve looked down at Bucky, Bucky looked back.

“Hi, honey,” said Steve quietly. A little relief entered Bucky’s eyes. Had that been the same look in his eyes when he walked away from Hydra for the last time? For a man who’d spent a long time under mind control, this must have been some horrible nightmare. “Sit tight, okay? We’re going to fix this.”

As if on cue, Bucky's phone chirped.

“Oh excuse me,” said Aziraphale, Bucky vanishing under the surface. He took the phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen. “Oh thank _goodness_!”

“Angel.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but Adam’s here.” He got to Bucky’s feet, walking straight through the mirror-thing which dissolved into mist. “It’s almost over.”

He walked straight out of Residential and past all the bullets and damage and to the main gate. There was a car parked there, a sleek black convertible, and sitting on the hood was a man. He reminded Steve of himself. It was the way Adam looked like a good thirty except when the light hit his eyes in a certain way. His eyes were much older.

“I really like this car,” he said.

"Good evening, Adam," said Aziraphale's voice out of Bucky's mouth.

Adam grinned,

“Now this is much cooler than the old lady. I like the look.”

“Thank you," said the angel, shuffling Bucky's feet in the road in an embarrassed squirm. "But if I could possibly ask for your help in separating the two of us again..."

"Alright." Adam stepped in through the gate eagerly looking around like a tourist. "It’s no skin off my teeth. I might take a look round New York since I’m here.”

Adam made a gesture and suddenly Bucky’s body violently wrenched itself to the left. Someone - multiple someones - screamed and then Bucky was left standing next to the man from the mirror. What happened next was predictable. Bucky collapsed, his body trying to shake itself to pieces on the road.

It took Steve a moment to realise the seemingly random peaking motion of Bucky’s hand was ASL. Not _kiss_ but _home_ and the effort to get that message out in the middle of a panic attack must have been titanic.

Steve put one arm around Bucky’s back and the one other under his legs and picked him up. Bucky used to carry him like this sometimes after long bouts of illness and usually under protest. The difference in their weight was much smaller now - with the arm Bucky was still heavier - but Steve didn’t feel it as he hauled Bucky up. All that matter was getting him home, away from all these eyes. He felt Bucky’s hand clutch at him blindly, trying to keep from drowning.

***

Brock Rumlow opened his eyes. It was dark, darker than the gym, and he strained to see. Eventually, he managed to pick out four plain walls around him in a six-by-six square. There was no door. Looked like someone had picked up an office cubicle and dumped it whole into a deep pit. Why the fuck did the Avengers had something like this?

He moved to a wall, heaving his boots out of the layer of thick mud on the floor. No handholds, but maybe he could kick a few out of the wall.

“‘Ello.”

Above him, legs dangling down into the pit were two people. They were dressed in charity drive cast-offs and there was something about the eyes that made the hairs stand up on the back of Rumlow’s neck. He’d had their corpses removed from the warehouse wrapped in tarps.

“You were very rude before,” said Caim.

“Rude,” said Oso. “We don’t like that.”

“Not when it happens to us anyway.”

With their heads bent together, they blocked off most of the light down in the pit. The only thing that shone was those eyes and they gleamed like steel.

***

Crowly drove them all into the city. There hadn’t been a back seat in the car when Crowley got it, but there was now. He dropped Adam off at Times Square, ignoring traffic, speed limits, and the unwritten laws of driving in New York City.

“Thank you again,” said Aziraphale over the noise of a growing line of cars stuck behind them. “It was very kind of you to help us out.”

“I’ll help you out again if you get stuck in someone cool.” Adam’s grin took years off, even off his eyes. “Maybe Black Widow. I’d pay to see that.”

He slid out of the back seat, the presence of which would puzzle the New York tech billionaire for years to come, and meshed with the crowds like a born New Yorker. Crowley didn’t drive off. Instead, he turned and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pressing his face into his curls.

“If you ever do something like that again,” he said in a tone halfway between threatening and loving, “I will kill you.”

“Of course, my dear.” Crowley’s lips were warm and dry and Aziraphale had been longing to kiss them with his own mouth. “I promise to never leave Soho if I can possibly help it.”

“That’s where it all happened,” grumbled Crowley, but he kissed him again.

“Seeing home again will be such a relief. Lovely people the Avengers but their home was so… minimalist,” said Aziraphale who believed a house could only be a home when every surface was colonised by books, tomes, octavos, and folios.

“I was thinking,” said Crowley, finally peeling away from the pavement at breakneck speed, “we could stay a few days.” He shrugged. “New York has the most Michelin Starred restaurants in America.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale was so distracted by the thought that he even peeled his fingers away from the door handle. “Well. I suppose I haven’t had sushi for a while.”

***

Bucky remembered flashes of light and dark, a feeling like his lungs couldn’t drag in enough oxygen, a sense of a big solid, comforting presence around him. Then he was suddenly back in the moment, laid out on his and Steve’s shared bed. The electricity was back on. He stayed still, grounding himself in the pattern of the comforter, the sight of Steve’s orderly bedside table. And there was the man himself, sitting on the floor. He’d changed from his uniform to a plain t-shirt and sweats and his hair was damp. As if he felt Bucky’s gaze on him, he turned to look at him.

“Hi, Buck. You with me?”

Bucky nodded.

“You’ve been asleep, I think. Not long. Few hours.” He moved to kneel in front of him, adjusting the covers minutely. “It’s… You’ve had a hard time recently, am I right?”

Bucky bit down on his bottom lip so it wouldn’t tremble. The last, last thing he needed was more crying. But it was hard in the face of Steve’s implacable kindness.

“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry,” said Steve, “I just want to know why you didn’t tell me?”

By now Steve was an old hand at this so he knew to wait while Bucky got his words and emotions in order.

“Because it was crazy talk, Steve. PTSD’s one thing. Like at this point it’s…” He lost the words again, but he slid his hand out and finger-spelt it. _It’s expected. But voices in my head…_

He let it trail off, let his hand dangle off the bed.

“I would’ve believed you the second you started talking in a British accent. In a different voice. All his expressions were wrong.”

“He was a bad spy,” said Bucky slowly.

Steve’s hand was still nearby and Bucky inched his fingers closer. Brushed the warm flesh, interlinked them clumsily together.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said, “I love you. And it’s hard to love me. Sometimes. With everything.”

“It’s not hard at all, I told you that.” Steve squeezed his fingers, his eyes tracing the shape of their joined hands. “You want to hear a story? I promise it’s not depressing.”

“Okay.”

Steve got up, letting go of Bucky’s hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. There was a smell of smoke and gunpowder and dirt that Bucky realised was coming from him. Steve only smelt of soap.

“A few years ago… I thought that I could see myself moving on. I still loved you. It was driving me crazy that it was all legal now, but you weren’t there. But I was so lonely and Nat was always mentioning interested girls. We’d gotten close recently. If I’d asked her to find some interested guys she would’ve.” Bucky sat up, prompting Steve to say, “I know, I know. That’s not what you want to hear as my sweetheart. But I’m getting to the point.

“I told myself that Nat and I would finish up the mission and I’d tell her. Maybe I’d go back to the exhibit, see your face and ask permission. But on that very same day, we were on the highway. And there you were.”

Armed to the teeth and vicious with Hydra conditioning. Being so close to a mind wipe meant that the memory was cloudy but he could remember “who the hell is Bucky?” and the struggle to articulate why this man’s face made his chest ache.

 _There go your dating plans_ , he ventured. Steve laughed and Bucky was proud of himself for that.

“You saved me from online dating so there’s that,” he said. “The point is that I might be a little stubborn but I know when the universe is trying to tell me something. It’s you and me. Losing all your memories didn’t change that. Being possessed didn’t either.”

He reached out and stroked Bucky’s hair just once. Again Bucky smelt soap and clean clothes and Steve. He leant forward until his forehead touched Steve’s shoulder. His body followed into the safe harbour of Steve’s body. His shirt was buttery soft under Bucky’s face. Maybe it was just that he was alone in his head for the first time in a long time, but he felt he could sit here forever.

“You’re so good. Choosing you was the best thing I ever did.”

He turned in, towards the patient beat of Steve’s heart and when Steve’s arm came round, he was shielded from all the rest of the world.


	8. Chapter 8

It was overcast and chilly, but since it wasn’t raining Crowley considered it a good day. He parked on double-yellows outside the shop and caught Aziraphale coming out of the front door. 

“Hello, angel.”

“Good morning, Crowley.” He kissed him on the cheek before linking their arms together. “I was just about to go to the postbox if you’d like to join me.” 

Both of them steadfastly ignored a potential customer looking downcast as the angel locked the door behind him. It would’ve been a very short drive - especially with Crowley’s style of driving - but Crowley started up the pavement with Aziraphale anyway. Maybe he was spoiling the angel a bit these days - or tempting him if he wanted to keep a little dignity - but a month was an incredibly short time to creatures as old as they were. So Crowley would continue fussing around him and vigorously deny it if pressed.

Aziraphale had a large envelope under his other arm, peeking out enough for Crowley to spot the New York address and the single first-class stamp. Aziraphale had an enduring belief in a first-class stamp being sufficient to get a letter anywhere in the world and since he was an angel it was true.

“Pen-letter to your borrowed body?”

“Well, I felt so terrible about… everything and he really did deserve something nice.”

“Didn’t let us mess around in his head again?”

“No, but I managed to track down something. Just a little token really. That silly man in Portsmouth didn’t even know what he had,” preened Aziraphale. In certain niche arenas, Aziraphale could be very ruthless and it was somehow worse when he continued to be unflinchingly polite and pleasant about it. “And so I have a lovely gift. After all, no harm came from reading a book.”

Crowley’s glare was so profound that shop tills started to malfunction, bags split, traffic lights flickered, and traffic wardens appeared at every corner.

“Well,” said a more mollified Aziraphale, “no harm ever came from reading _this_ book.”

“You sure?”

“I am very sure.”

Around them, things started to get back to normal as the pall of concentrated demon-annoyance lifted. In fact, some graffiti was dissolving off the postbox ahead, making it gleam an extra cheerful shade of red. Aziraphale put the envelope through, naive of things like twenty-first-century postal charges, and then squeezed Crowley’s arm.

“I have, in the back room, a very fine whiskey that might be to your liking.”

Crowley looked up at the grey London sky and decided that a very fine whiskey would be to his liking today.

“You might just tempt me to that, angel,” and they turned and walked back up the street.

***

The Avengers had a monthly movie night with a rota. Everyone had their method for choosing movies. Steve had his lists, Vision had a selection of websites and a spreadsheet, Bucky often gave his turn away when he didn’t have the energy to choose. Bucky and Steve also had their own movie nights, just for the two of them, where the movies were in black-and-white and they’d often seen them for the first time on a quarter matinee ticket. Less pressure to choose, fewer old people jokes, and a lot more cuddling. Bucky came in through the front door looking forward to it.

“How’d it go?” said Steve, over at the stove. Bucky could hear the popping of popcorn kernels. So at least Steve hadn’t been fretting too much. It had only been a last checkup of the socket anyway.

“Good.” Bucky kicked off his sneakers and flopped onto the couch. “Tired.” He made his one hand into a mouth, making it flap. _Blah blah blah_.

“If there’s something Tony’s not short on it’s words.” Steve clattered around in the kitchen then passed a bottle into Bucky’s eye line. “Here.”

Bucky took a few gulps, feeling revived already. Steve was bringing over the popcorn and a bottle of his own and Bucky moved to make room for him.

“They shrink-wrapped me though.”

“Shrink-wrapped?”

Bucky pulled his sweater down at the neck, showing where the plastic wrap was covering his metal shoulder.

“Keeps the dust out. And I got to see the arm.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tony had sent him progress pictures, but this was the first time he’d seen the whole thing just-about assembled, only missing the two plates where it would join to his shoulder. “It’s beautiful.”

“Then it’ll match.”

Bucky laughed, flopping against the warm, steady presence beside him. He trapped his drink between them long enough to sign _sweet talker_.

He felt less tired after the movie was done. Instead, he felt warm from Steve’s furnace-like body, where he’d even fallen asleep for a couple of minutes. That was new, but he liked it.

“What’re you thinking about?” said Steve. He reached out and tapped on Bucky’s forehead. Looking for any hollow noises, the jerk.

“Still strange we get to cuddle up for a movie,” he said, which made the man happy.

“Are you still up for therapy?”

Bucky nodded. Maybe therapy would be a little shorter than they hoped this morning, but he’d done pretty well for himself this evening. They went to separate rooms to change and as Bucky stripped off he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Tomorrow, the bare socket would be covered with his new arm. He ran his fingers across the plastic wrap, over the metal that had settled into place. The scar looked less angry too and smaller. Maybe that would go entirely, and the arm would be the only sign of what had happened to him.

Steve was sat on the bed ready, stripped to the waist like Bucky, his matching shoulders bare. In the old days, that Irish-cream complexion would be looking pasty at this time of year, but the serum had fixed that too.

“Excited for tomorrow?”

He nodded, joining Steve on their comfy bed. Steve reached out - slow enough for Bucky to say no - and smoothed his hand down Bucky’s metal shoulder.

“I miss cooking together. You don’t have to worry about chopping your fingers off.”

He ran a hand carefully over the socket, where the arm would be tomorrow. Steve would be coming to that appointment, ready with a hand to hold. Bucky extended his own solitary hand, putting it on Steve’s side where he’d recently been lying. Still so warm.

"You want to do some reading this time around?" said Steve, the words felt as a vibration through Bucky's palm.

"It's okay." 

Bucky smoothed his hand down Steve's side once, then put his arm around his shoulders. He wished he had the other arm back now. Then he could put both arms around Steve and be warmer. At least Steve had both of his, one on his back, one on his side, and kissing didn’t trigger any alarms tonight. It was good and slow. Not the kind of slow where Steve wanted to keep from triggering him, but the kind where he wanted to take his time, the kind where they had all night. When they parted Steve was startlingly pretty, all shining blue eyes and red mouth. What did he look like in Steve’s eyes?

“Let’s lie down,” said Bucky, suddenly wanting something solid all around him. Using Steve’s body as a comforting shield was new. The thought of being pressed down by anyone else made him anxious, but what had his therapist said? Handshaking he could spread around but one day he’d reach the point where he’d try things with Steve that he didn’t want to do with anyone else. 

Steve helped him down, making him comfortable, stealing himself a kiss while he was at it. Then he slowly lowered himself down, pressing Bucky into the mattress. Bucky’s initial little spark of panic quickly burnt out. This was _Steve_ and if he asked Steve would get off him. He didn’t want to. He squeezed him closer. He smelt good.

“Thanks,” said Steve into his ear, breath tickling. So Bucky had said that out loud.

“Shut up,” he said, making Steve quake with muffled laughter.

Steve got up onto his elbows, taking his weight off Bucky for a moment. Bucky lifted his hand, cupping Steve’s cheek.

“You smell good too,” said Steve, turning his head into Bucky’s palm. With two hands, Bucky could pull him down and just luxuriate in that high-metabolism warmth. “You doing okay, honey?” 

“I’m okay.”

Yes, Bucky was more than okay, so relaxed and comfortable. He was aware of Steve but it was unlike the hyper-vigilance of touch issues. When Steve pushed a strand of his hair behind his ear for him, it was like his fingertips left behind a comforting warm trail. 

“Again?” He pecked at Steve’s back, like _kiss_.

Steve’s weight pushed him down into the mattress, and who cared about the world outside the warm little space Bucky was in. His hand found the velvety short hairs on the back of Steve’s neck. He could kiss like this forever. He hooked Steve’s leg with one of his, he wriggled deeper into the mattress, against Steve’s bare skin. Rocked his hips up…

He broke off the kiss.

“Oh,” was all he got out. 

His bright confidence had suddenly fled, leaving him thin like a paper sketch. Steve was still but not confused. It had been a while but he was far from dumb, he could feel Bucky’s erection poking him in the hip. It had been such a long time with no movement there. Was it that that made the space between his hips so… insistent? His skin felt ten times more sensitive, too hot. He didn’t know what to do.

“Hey, Bucky Barnes,” said Steve. He went over on his side and coaxed Bucky over too. One of Bucky’s blankets was spread out on the foot of the bed and Steve tugged it up over Bucky’s waist. All the folds and fabric hid it and that helped a little. A grown man shouldn’t be afraid of his own dick.

“Okay,” said Steve. He laid a steadying hand on Bucky’s side, just below the empty arm socket. The brush of calluses made goosebumps rise on Bucky’s skin. “So first of all, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Naturally. This was Steve talking. Hearing it did make Bucky feel better though. He managed to meet Steve’s eyes.

“Way I see it,” continued Steve, “we could just stay here and wait it out. That’s option one.”

It hadn’t gone down any. All Bucky’s problems aside, he did remember what Steve was like after he got the serum. There were definite differences in his serum and Steve’s but option one meant they’d be here a while.

“Option two,” said Steve in the same relaxing tone, “you could take care of it yourself. I don’t have to be here if you don’t want me to.”

No. Bucky didn’t know what to do with himself, but he wanted Steve’s steadying presence. If his sweetheart had been wearing a shirt - and the thought of those tight shirts made the goddamn thing twitch - he would’ve reached out and grabbed it.

“And option three. I could do it for you. I don’t need you to reciprocate, Buck,” he added because he must have seen Bucky’s face change, “I’m happy just making you feel good.”

Not a worry for Bucky because, again, this was Steve. And in the really dark days, no one had… But that wasn’t a thought for now. He just wanted…

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” said Bucky, carefully shaping each word.

“I know,” said Steve, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t. You know I like this sort of thing.”

Memories of Steve between his legs, big or small, grin a mile wide. Using those long artist’s hands of his or his pink mouth. Steve did like lavishing attention on him.

“I could try?” said Bucky. Must have been the timidest response to an offer in the history of sex, but it got him a kiss so he must have done something right. It actually got him a whole bunch of little kisses because Steve was really fucking cute and it made the knot uncurl in his chest. Kissing was good, he reminded himself, and he’d once been afraid of it.

“We could sit you up against the pillows if you think it’ll be better to see me.”

That made sense to Bucky. Sure he never got this kind of treatment from Hydra but it did help to see Steve hovering over him. And he could reach out and touch him, brush a palm over all that soft skin, or shove him off if he needed to. Look at him instead of his own body. He closed his eyes as Steve brushed a hand over his stomach. He remembered that move from the old days, Steve trailing kisses on the way down.

“How do you want it, Buck?”

Bucky, being a grown man in the privacy of his own home, should be able to tell his sweetheart that he’d like him to use his mouth, but given what else was going on he cut himself some slack and pointed at his own mouth.

Steve took off his sweatpants for him, patiently narrating away. He didn’t say, but Bucky wondered if he looked different to what Steve remembered. No complaints from that quarter though.

He seemed to know that Bucky couldn’t take much teasing or drawing it out so he snuggled down between Bucky’s legs, kissed him once on his inner thigh then swallowed him down.

Bucky didn’t last long but he knew he wouldn’t. It was almost, almost too much. He experienced it as flashes of sensations: Steve’s hands gently cradling his thigh and hip, the sheets he clutched in his hands, and above all the warm, wet heat of Steve’s mouth. He came with a noise between a whine and a sob, hand doing… something. But Steve was up - the lack of warmth making Bucky shiver - and his hands were smoothing and petting him like no one had done for him for such a long time and Steve’s hips were twitching and it was okay and he said so, putting his one hand on the small of Steve’s back and pressing down.

“It’s okay,” he said, probably in English, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Then Steve got it and he lasted just a little longer than Bucky did, rutting against the mattress, coming in his pants like he hadn’t done since they were teenagers. Bucky had nearly forgotten how he looked after, how he _glowed_ all gold and cream and blue eyes. If he had both his hands he could have pulled him up towards him so easily, but he did his best with one, encouraging Steve up and squeezing him as hard as he could.

Steve was making comforting noises, little bits of nonsense, and since Bucky had started the hug, he’d matched him arm-for-arm. If Bucky had gone into this with a timid response, he was making up for it now.

“You okay, honey?” said Steve into his ear. Warm breath, warm body. Bucky had never been this warm in his entire life. “Bucky? Honey, baby, sweetheart, light of my life.”

Bucky snorted,

“M’okay.”

He stretched backwards so he could look Steve in the face. Look at that pretty, dopey grin. His body felt like it was floating.

“I’m so proud of you.” Steve’s hands were ghosting over his back, through his hair. He should’ve been long touched-out by now, but it didn’t seem to be happening. It felt like he could lie here and get petted by Steve for the rest of his life. He yawned, pressing his face back into Steve’s broad chest. No wonder he was feeling so tired, being all warm and safe like this.

“Want some pants?”

Bucky made a noise in the affirmative, dragging himself up after Steve. He’d change, he’d sleep. Tomorrow, he’d get his new arm.

Steve took a set of pyjama pants out of the drawer, the one with the little shields on the pants. He also got some of his own out.

“Need some help?” Bucky shook his head. He had changing clothes one-handed down to an art now. “I’m going to get cleaned up. Won’t be long.”

He gave Bucky another kiss, just above the eye. He must’ve been just as loved up, just as floating as Bucky was.

Bucky got dressed, listening to water running in the bathroom, the creak of the laundry hamper. When he came in, Steve was brushing his teeth. He made room for him at the mirror, applied toothpaste to the brush for him - screw caps were a pain in the ass - and stood next to him, close enough to brush arm against arm. It was nice, touching like that. It wouldn't last forever but all Bucky had to do was wait for the next good day.

***

The Avengers Compound never truly slept, but it certainly wound down at night. Only Vision was awake, making detailed notes on his next movie pick. The other Avengers were asleep, alone or curled in together like two peas in a pod. In the entrance hall of Residential, in the row of neat mail slots, in the one marked J. Barnes, an envelope rattled slightly as it appeared out of thin air. Having satisfied the angel’s rigid belief in the power of Royal Mail, it settled down, waiting for the morning.

***

Bucky dreamt of trying to load a gun with the exposed skeleton of a metal arm, fumbling with fingers he couldn’t feel. Behind him people muttered among themselves, pencils scratching on clipboards. Even if he couldn’t feel the arm, he could feel the eyes on his back.

He woke up frowning, but not for long. Heat had sunk into his bones and deep into the very core of his being and that eased the lines off his face. Steve had an arm around him, his chest against Bucky’s side. This wasn’t new. Before the ice, they’d woken up like this more often than not when they had the privacy, when they had the time. Even as kids, they’d ended up sprawled over each other.

He could watch Steve sleep all day. Just lie there and watch him breathe, look at his golden eyelashes and his ridiculous bedhead. But his alarm started chirping and he had to wake up. It was cute still, watching him frown and open those big, blue eyes… Watching him get all sentimental about Bucky being in his arms. Bucky rolled onto his side to see him better.

“Good morning,” Steve said softly.

“Mornin’.”

Steve lifted the arm from Bucky’s waist and smoothed back a stray bit of hair. The alarm chirped on and on.

“Captain Rogers,” came the sudden voice of FRIDAY, “you haven’t dismissed your alarm. Have you fallen?”

“I’m fine!” He rolled, reaching for his phone, dismissing the alarm.

“Thank you, Captain Rogers.”

“Tony thinks he’s funny,” said Steve, rolling back into the warm space. “He programmed her to say that.”

“Biologically,” said Bucky, “I think he’s older than us.”

“And we’ll remind him of that later.” He kissed Bucky on the forehead. “Ready to get your arm back?”

They went down the stairs hand-in-hand. Tony was waiting with a heavy metal case and a chair. Someone had made the chair less like The Chair by throwing a blanket on it and topping it off with a fluffy cushion in a violent shade of red.

“Good morning, super-soldier brigade.”

Bucky nodded at him and Steve said hi back.

“So today we’re hooking up the arm. I gave the spiel to Bucky B yesterday, so I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version, Cap.” Tony went to the case and undid the catches. “So it’s just about assembled, we just have to attach it at the shoulder and then put on the last plates. Now the attaching is going to hurt, no way around that since we’re connecting Barnes’ nerves to the thing. Shouldn’t be more than a few seconds and it’ll be worth it.” 

He put a hand on the lid and opened the case with a flourish like a magician. The arm lay on the padding, gleaming under the lights. It was the same sort of structure with the multiple plates, but refined, the lines almost invisible. Yesterday, Tony had let him lift parts of the inner structure to show how much lighter the alloy was now. It would weigh the same as his other arm. No more lurching stride to compensate.

“Presenting the Arm Version 2.0,” said Tony, preening in the spotlight. “Made of the finest recycled evil robot on the outside and an alloy of evil robot and titanium on the inside, it weighs twelve point seven pounds. Luxury features as standard include automatic temperature control to stop pesky burns on those hot summer days and emergency tracking chip located here-” He pointed at the star, awaiting attention from Steve’s enamel paints. “-under the matching Captain America logo. No batteries required. Just an extra two hundred calories a day. Not that I know where you put the ones you eat now.” He grinned. “So what do you think?”

Bucky turned to Steve who was drinking it in. He wondered how the new arm would look rendered in pencil or charcoal.

“I mean, it’s up to Bucky, not me.” He squeezed Bucky’s hand. “But it’s good. It’ll look good on you.”

“I like to think my genius extends to fashion too. Let’s get this arm on. Hop on the chair, Bucky-bot.”

Bucky did so, stripping his sweater off and handing it off to Steve. Steve’s eyes flicked down to his chest for just a moment. It reminded Bucky of last night. He could do that now. The blanket he draped over himself and the cushion he put on his lap.

 _Did Tony bring this from home?_ he signed while Tony’s back was turned, nodding at the cushion.

 _His private collection_ , Steve signed back, winking at him.

Having the arm connected wasn’t so bad. He had no sensation there yet and he could focus on Steve’s hand on his right. Warm fingers interlinking with his. With his eyes closed, he didn’t even have the glimpses of Tony out of the corner of his eye to flinch at. From one side, the sound of metalwork. On his other side, Steve breathing and moving.

“Okay, so we’re going to connect the nerves now,” said Tony, after the tools were laid down with neat clicks. “Remember, it’s going to smart.”

“I’ve had worse,” was not what Bucky said. Today was a good day. He didn’t want to bring up the bad ones.

“I’m ready,” he said instead. He squeezed Steve’s hand.

“You got it. Just remember: not the face.”

It did hurt. His left arm and shoulder came alive, bright as a knife. He cut off a short scream, both hands spasming open. The right one was covered by Steve’s. The left one fell onto the arm of the chair. But Tony hadn’t lied. It was only a brief flash of pain. In the bad old days, he wouldn’t even have grunted. He carefully curled his fingers, right around Steve’s hand, left around the chair arm.

Under his metal fingers, there was polished wood. It was cool and smooth under his fingers and not like he was wearing two layers of gloves. Feeling, just like his flesh-and-blood hand.

“Oh yeah,” said Tony, preening again, “maybe I found a way to increase sensation in the arm. Easy actually. I guess evil scientists didn’t want to bother.”

Bucky ran his hand over the very red cushion, delicate fluff against his palm. Over the soft fabric of his sweats. Over Steve’s hand and then his cheek and his soft mouth…

“Okay, wow.” Tony cleared his throat. “I’m going to take that as a thumbs up.”

Steve captured his new hand and that was nice because the warmth started to sink into the metal flesh.

“It’s wonderful,” said Bucky carefully, almost mute with joy. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Bucky-B. Pay me back by sitting still for these last plates, okay?”

It took no time at all and when it was done, Bucky got his hands - his two good hands - back from Steve and held out the right one to Tony. Today was a good day. Woke up in his sweetheart’s arms, got a new working arm, going to shake another man’s hand. Tony had a good, firm handshake but that was to be expected, wasn’t it? Steve reached over and shook Tony’s hand too.

“Thanks for all your hard work, Tony.”

Bucky pulled his sweater over his head, marvelling at how easy it was with two hands. He looked forward to tying up his own hair, lacing up his boots, a whole range of stuff made easier with an extra hand. He waited patiently for the most important thing as Steve finished thanking Tony, got their mail, and went back into their apartment. As soon as that door closed behind them, he hugged Steve hard as he could, both arms wrapped around him. Last night he’d been right. Easier and better to squeeze your sweetheart close with two arms.

“Thank you,” he said into Steve’s ear, “for everything.”

Steve’s hands spread out on his back. They’d be warmer on his bare skin.

“It’s okay. You weren’t half the terror I used to be.”

Bucky knew he could never repay Steve for saving him when he shouldn’t have, for loving him when he shouldn’t have, but the best thing about Steven Rogers was that he didn’t care about that. He accepted Bucky as he was and asked nothing more than Bucky could give.

“Sit down,” said Bucky, “I’m going to make us some breakfast.”

“If you need a sous chef you know where I am.”

It was cosy and domestic in the best way: Bucky mixing pancake batter, Steve opening their mail at the coffee table.

“You’ve got a letter,” said Steve, holding it over his shoulder so Bucky could see. “From England.”

Bucky cradled the bowl of batter in the crook of his elbow and looked. The return address was in London written in a neat, fussy script. Bucky could just about hear those plummy British tones, feel the weight of another mind on his.

“Want me to open it for you?” said Steve. Kind tones, because he must have seen discomfort in Bucky’s face.

There couldn’t be a bomb in there. It was a larger envelope but slim. Why would he send a bomb when he had magic? Who knew what magic could do? 

“Open it,” he said, hand wanting one of the kitchen knives, as much use as that would be.

Inside: one folded sheet of creamy writing paper and one slim paperback. There was a single line of that same fussy writing on the paper, but Steve immediately went for the book. It was one of the sideways ones they used to give out in the war, the binding on one of the short sides instead. The much-creased and battered cover was green: the title was _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_. And when Steve flipped the cover, there was a drawing of Bucky Barnes.

Bucky remembered finding it and being able to put aside the war and feel something else for a change. Mostly he’d been grateful that someone loved him enough to spend all that time and effort to distract him from the bloodshed for a little while.

“I remember,” he said when Steve turned to him. He put the bowl aside absently and crossed the floor. Steve had drawn him in that blue coat he’d worn back then, the corners of his mouth turned up. Short hair. All of it lovingly rendered in pencil.

“I didn’t think it survived.”

“People could say the same about us,” said Bucky, looking at himself from seventy years away. “Here we are.”

“You’re right.”

The letter was unsigned and it said: _With my compliments and my apologies._ As apologies went, it was pretty damn good. Steve turned a page carefully, revealing a sketch of a rambling stone wall running in the margin under the text, a tree growing up on the right. Bucky remembered the smell of night air and the whisper of wind through the trees.

“Bonnebosq,” said Bucky. “We found that orchard.”

“And made ourselves sick eating all those cider apples,” said Steve ruefully.

“And you…” In the dark, Steve had reached out and kissed him, under that tree where Bucky could believe they were all alone in the world. “That kiss was risky.”

“But worth it. You always were the sensible one.”

Steve’s hand settled over Bucky’s. He could feel his fingers creep into the gaps between his metal ones just as good as his other hand. He put his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“Show me another one?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that. I did a lot of things one-handed around the house, picked up a little ASL, and Googled a lot of clips from the MCU and Good Omens. I hope you enjoyed this story about an angel, a demon, and two super-soldiers. If you haven't read them yet, I also did a bunch of short stories too.
> 
> If anyone was wondering, the main change in the story was cutting out a whole bunch of demons. Originally, a dozen or so demons were going to team up with Rumlow and do things like pretend to be from the State Department to get a look in the Compound. But then I thought would Rumlow want to share his revenge? Especially since I made his appearance in the first chapter a lot creepier and sexual than it originally was. And nothing a demon could do is worse than what humans can do to each other. So I cut down the number of demons and then had Rumlow cut them down. I hope this was better.
> 
> Thank you for reading, kudosing, and commenting! x


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